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THE 



COMPLETE WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS. 



EDITED FROM THE 



BEST PRINTED AND MANUSCRIPT AUTHORITIES, 

WITH GLOSSARIAL INDEX AND A BIOGRAPHICAI, MEMOIR, 



ALEXANDER SMITH. 
I 




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NEW YORK: 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., 

No. 13 AsTOR Place. 



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V, - '' 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Robert Burns was born about two mUes to the south of Ayr, in the neighbor- 
hood of AUoway Kirk and the Bridge of Doon, on the 25th January, 1759. The 
cottage, a clay one, had been constructed by his father, and a week after the 
poet's birth it gave way in a violent wind, and mother and child were carried at 
midnight to the shelter of a neighbor's dwelling. 

When Burns became famous he wore, more however for ornament than use — 
like the second jacket of a hussar — a certain vague Jacobitism. Both in his verses 
and his letters he makes allusion to the constancy with which his ancestors fol- 
lowed the banner of the Stuarts, and to the misfortunes which their loyalty brought 
upon them. The family was a Kincardineshire one — in which county indeed, it 
can be traced pretty far back by inscriptions in churchyards, documents appertain- 
ing to leases and the like — and the poet's grandfather and uncles were out, it is 
said, in the Rebellion of 1715. When the title and estates of the Earl Marischal 
were forfeited on account of the uprising, Burns's grandfather seems to have been 
brought into trouble. He lost his farm, and his son came southward in search of 
employment. The poe:'s father, who spelt his name Burnes, and who was sus- 
pected of having a share in the Rebellion of 1745, came into the neighborhood 
of Edinburgh, where he obtained employment as a gardener. Afterwards he 
went into Ayrshire, where, becoming overseer to Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm and 
leasing a few acres of land, he erected a house and brought home his wife, Agnes 
Brt.wn, in December, 1757. Robert was the firstborn. Brain, hypochondria, and 
general superiority, he inherited from his father; from his mother he drew his 
lyrical gift, his wit, his mirth. She had a fine complexion, bright dark eyes, 
cheerful spirits, and a ir.emory stored with song and ballad — a love for which 
Robert drew in with her milk. 

In 1766, William Burnes removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant in the parish 
of Ayr; 'but the soil was sour and bitter, and on the death of Mr. Ferguson, to 
whom Mount Oliphant belonged, the management of the estate fell into the hands 
of a factor, of whom all the world has heard. Disputes arose between the official 
and the tenant. Harsh letters were read by the fireside at Mount Oliphant, and 
were remembered years afterwards, bitterly enough, by at least one of the listen- 
ers. Burnes left his farm after an occupancy of six years, and removed to Loch- 
lea, a larger and better one in the parish of Tarbolton. Here, however, an 
unfortunate difference arose between tenant and landlord as to the conditions of 
lease. Arbiters were chosen, and a decision was given in favor of the proprietor. 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



This misfortiiiic seems to have broken the spirit of Burnes. He died of consump- 
tion on the ijlh P'ebruary, 1784, aged 63, weary enough of his long strife with 
poverty and ungenial soils, but not before he had learned to take pride in the 
abilities of his eldest son, and to tremble for his passions. 

Burnes was an admirable specimen of the Scottish yeoman, or small farmer, of 
the last century; for peasant he never was, nor did he come of a race of peasants. 
In his whole mental build and training he was superior to the people by whom 
he was surrounded. He had forefathers he could look back to; he had family 
tradilions which he kept sacred. Hard-headed, industrious, religious, somewhat 
austere, he ruled his household with a despotism, which affection and respect on 
the part of the ruled made light and easy. To the blood of the Burneses, a love 
of knowledge was native, as valor, in the old times, was native to the blood of the 
Douglasses. The poet's grandfather built a school at Clockenhill in Kincardine, 
the lirst known in that part of the country. Burnes was of the same strain, and he 
resolved that his sons should have every educational advantage his means could 
allow. To secure this he was ^\illing to rise early and drudge late. Accord- 
ingly, Robert, when six years old, was sent to a school at AUoway Mill; and on 
the removal of the teacher a few months afterwards to another post, Burnes, in 
conjunction with a few of his neighbors, engaged Mr. John Murdoch, boarding 
him in their houses i)y turns, and paying him a small sum of money quarterly. 
Mr. Murdoch entered upon his duties, and had Robert and Gilbert for pupils. 
Under him they acquired reading, spelling, and writing; they were drilled in 
English grammar, taught to turn verse into prose, to substitute synonymous 
e.xpressiuns for poetical words, and to supply ellipses. He also attempted to 
teach them a little Church music, but with no great success. He seems to have 
taken to the boys, and to have been pleased with their industry and intelligence. 
Gilljert was his favorite on account of his gay spirits and frolicsome look. 
Robert was by comparison taciturn — distinctly stupid in the matter of psalmody 
— and his countenance was swarthy, serious, and grave. 

Our information respecting the family circle at Mount Oliphant, more interest- 
ing now than that of any other contemporary Scottish family circle, is derived 
entirely from the reminiscences of the tutor, and of Gilbert and Robert themselves. 
And however we may value every trivial fact and hint, and attempt to make it a 
window of insight, these days, as they passed on, seemed dull and matter-of-fact 
enough to all concerned. Mr. Murdoch considered his pupils creditably diligent, 
but nowise remarkable. To Gilbert, these early years were made interesting when 
looked back upon in the light of his brother's glory. Of that periotl, Robert 
wrote a good deal at various times to various correspondents, when the world had 
become curious; but as in the case of all such writings, he unconsciously- mixes 
the past with the present — looks back on his ninth year with the eyes of his thir- 
tieth. He tells us that he was by no means a favorite with anybody; that though 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



it cost the master some thrashings, " I made an excellent English scholar; and by 
the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, 
and particles." Also we are told that in the family resided a certain old woman 
— Betty Davidson by name, as research has discovered — wlio had the largest 
collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, etc.; 
and that to the recital of these Robert gave attentive ear, unconsciously laying up 
material for future Taiiis-o-Shanter, and Addresses to the Deil. As for books, he 
had procured the Life of Hannibal, and the History of Sir William Wallace : 
the first of a classical turn, lent by Mr. Murdoch; the second, purely traditionary, 
the property of a neighboring blacksmith, constituting probably his entire secular 
library; and in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he describes how the perusal of the latter 
moved him, — 

•' In those boyish days, I remember in particular being struck with that part of 
Wallace's story where these lines occur : 

Syne to the Leglen wood when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat. 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked 
half a dozen miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout 
enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto, and explored every den and dell where 
I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged." 

When Mr. Murdoch left Mount Oliphant, the education of the family fell on 
the father, who, when the boys came in from labor on the edge of the wintry twi- 
light, lit his candle and taught them arithmetic. He also, when engaged in work 
with his sons, directed the conversation to improving subjects. He got books for 
them from a book society in Ayr; among which are named Derham's Physico 
and Astro-Theology, z.x\A Ray's Wisdom of God. Stackhouse's History of the 
Bible was in the house, and from it Robert contrived to extract a considerable 
knowledge of ancient history. Mr. Murdoch sometimes visited the family and 
brought books with him. On one occasion he read Titus Andronicus aloud at 
Mount Oliphant, and Robert's pure taste rose in a passionate revolt against its 
coarse cruelties 'and unspiritual horrors. When about fourteen years of age, he 
and his brother Gilbert were sent " week about during a summer quarter " to a 
parish school two or three miles distant frt)m the farm to improve themselves in 
penmanship. Next year, about midsummer, Robert spent three weeks with his 
tutor, Murdoch, who had established himself in Ayr. The first week was given 
to a careful revision of the English Grammar, the remaining fortnight was devoted 
to French, and on his return he brought with him the Adventures of Tclcmachus 
and a French Dictionary, and with these he used to work alone during his eve- 
nings. He also turned his attention to Latin, but does not seem to have made 
much progress therein, althouLjh in after-life he could introduce a sentence or so of 
the ancient tongue to adorn his correspondence. By the lime the family had left 



BIO GRAPHICAL PREFA CE. 



Mount Olipliant, he had torn the heart out of a good many books, among which 
were several theological works, some of a philosophical nature, a few novels, the 
S/iY/tifor, Sfiakespeart, Po/>e's Homer, and, abo\ e all, the IVorks of ^-///<r« 
Ramsay. These, with the Bible, a collection of English songs, and a collection of 
letters, were almost tlie only books he was ai.quainted with when he broke out in 
literature. No great library certainly, but he had a quick eye and ear, and ail 
Ayrshire was an open page to him, tilled with strange matter, which he only 
needed to read o(l" into passionate love-song or blistering satire. 

In his sixteenth year the family removed from Mount Oliphant to I.ochlea. 
Here Robert and Gilbeit were employetl regularly on the farm, and received from 
their father £"] per annum of wages. Up till now. Burns had led a solitary self- 
contained life, with no companionship save his own thoughts and what books he 
could procure, with no acquaintances save his father, his brother, and Mr. Murdoch. 
This seclusion was now about to cease. In his seventeenth year, " to give his man- 
ner a linish," he went to a country dancing school, — an important step in life for 
any young fellow, a specially important step for a youth of his years, heart, brain, 
and passion. In the Tarbolton dancing school the outer world with its fascina- 
tions burst upon him. It was like attaining majoiity and freedom. It was like 
coming up to London from the provinces. Here he lirst fell the sweets of society, 
and couKl assure himself of the truthfulness of his innate sense of superiority. At 
the dancing school, he encountered other young rustics laudably ambitious of 
" brushing up their manners," and, what was of more consequence, he encountered 
their partners also. This was his first .season, and he was as gay as a young man 
of fortune who had entered on his first London one. His days were spent in hard 
work, but the evenings were his own, and these he seems to have spent almost 
entirely in sweeihearting on his own account, or on that of others. His brother 
tells us that he was almost constantly in love. His inamoratas were the freckled 
beauties who milked cows and hoed potatoes; but his passionate imagination 
atiircil them with the most wonderful graces. He was Antony, and he found a 
Cleopatra — for \\ horn the worlil \\ ere well lost — in every harvest lield. For 
some years onward he did not read much; indeed, his fruitful reading, with the 
exception of Fvr^iisson^s Poems, of which hereafter, was accomplished by the 
time he was seventeen; his leisure being occupied in making love to rustic maids, 
where his big black eyes could come into play. Perhaps, on the whole, looking 
to poetic outcome, he could not have employed himself to better purpose. 

He was now rapidly getting perilous cargo on board. The Tarbolton dancing 
school introduced him to unlimited sweethearting, and his nineteenth summer, 
whicli he spent in the study of mensuration, at the school at Kirkoswald, made 
him acquainted with the interior of taverns, and with "scenes <if swaggering riot." 
He also made the acquaintance of certain smugglers who frequenteil that bare 
and deeply-coved coast, and seems to have been attracted by their lawless waysj 



BIO GRA PHICAL PRE FA CE. 



and speeches. It is characteristic, that in the midst of his studies, he was upsdt 
by the charms of a country girl who lived next door to the school. Wliilc taking 
the sun's altitude, he observed her walking in the adjoining garden, and Love put 
Trigonometry to flight. During his stay at Kirkoswald, he had read S/ictisione 
and Thomson, and on his return home he maintained a literary correspondence 
with his schoolfellows, and pleased his vanity with the thought tliat he could turn 
a sentence with greater skill and neatness than any one of them. 

I'or some time it had been Burns's habit to take a small portion of l.\nd from his 
father far the purpose of raising flax; and, as he had now some idea of settliiig 
in life, it struck him that if he could add to his farmer-craft the accomplishment 
of flax-dressing, it might not be unprofitable. He accordingly went to live with 
a rclatit)n of hir. mother's in Irvine — Peacock l)y name — who followeil that busi- 
ness, and witli him for some time he worked with diligence and success. But 
while welcoming the New Year morning after a I)acchanalian fashion, the premises 
took fire, and his schemes were laid waste. Just at this time, too — to complete 
his discomfiture — he had been jilted by a sweetheart, "who had pledged her soiii 
to meet him in the iield of matrimony." In almost all the foul weather whicU 
Burns cncoimtercd, a woman may be discovered flitting through it like a stormy 
petrel. His residence at Irvine was a loss, in a worldly point of view, but there 
he ripened rapidly, both spiritually and poetically. At Irvine, as at Kirkoswald, he 
made the acnuaintance of persons engaged in contral)and traffic, and he tells us 
that a chief friend of his "spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which, 
hitherto, I had regarded with horror. There his friendship did me a mischief." 
About this time, too, John Rankine — to whom he afterwards addressed several 
of his epistles — introduced him to St. Mary's Lodge, inTarbolton, and he became 
an enthusi.astij Freem.ason. Of his ment.al states and intellectual progress we are 
furnished with numerous hints. He was member of a debating club at Tarbolton, 
and the question for Hallowe'en still exists in his handwriting. It is as follows: 
"Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his 
power to marry either of two women, the one a girl of large fortune, but neither 
handsome in person nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the 
household affairs of a farm well enough; the other of them a girl every way 
agreeable in person, conversation, and behavior, but without any fortune; which 
of them shall he choose? " Not a bad subject for a collection of clever rustics to 
sh.arpen their wits upon ! We may surmise that Burns found himself as much 
superior in debate to his companions at the Bachelors' Club as he had previously 
found himself superior to his Kirkoswald correspondents in letter-writing. The 
question for the Hallowe'en discussion is interesting mainly in so far as it indicates 
what kind of discussions were being at that time conducted in his own brain; and 
also how habitually, tlien and afterwards, his thinking grew out of his personal 
condition and surroundings. A question of this kind interested him more than 



BIO GRA PHICAL PRErA CE. 



whether, for instance, Cromwell deserved well of his country. Neither now nor 
afterwards did he trouble himself much about far-removed things. He cared for 
no other land than Caledonia. He did not sing of Helen's beauty, but of the 
beauty of the country girl he loved. His poems were as much the product of 
his own farm and its immediate neighborhood, as were the clothes and shoes he 
wore, the oats and turnips he grew. Another aspect of him may be found in the 
letter addressed to his father three days before the Irvine flax-shop went on hie. 
It is infected with a magnificent hypochondriasis. It is written as by a Boling- 
broke — by a man who had played for a mighty stake, and who, when defeated, 
could smile gloomily and turn fortune's slipperiness into parables. And all the 
while the dark philosophy and the rolling periods flowed from the pen of a country 
lad, whose lodgings are understood to have cost a shilling per week, and " whose 
meal was nearly out, but who was going to borrow till he got more." One other 
circumstance attending his Irvine life deserves notice — his falling in with a copy 
of Fergussoti's Poems. For some time previously he had not written much, but 
Fergusson stirred him with emulation; and on his removal to Mossgiel, shortly 
afterwards, he in a single winter poured forth more immortal verse — measured 
by mere quantity — than almost any poet in the same space of time, either before 
his day or after. 

Three months before the death of the elder Burnes, Robert and Gilbert rented 
the farm of Mossgiel in the parish of Mauchline. The farm consisted of 1 19 
acres, and its rent was £()0. After the father's death the whole family removed 
thither. Burns was now twenty-four years of age, and come to his full strength 
of limb, brain, and passion. As a young farmer on his own account, he mixed 
more freely than hitherto in the society of the country-side, and in a more inde- 
pendent fashion. He had the black eyes which Sir Walter saw afterwards in 
Edinburgh, and remembered to have "glowed." He had wit, which convulsed 
the Masonic Meetings, and a rough-and-ready sarcasm with which he flayed his 
foes. Besides all this, his companionship at Irvine had borne its fruits. He had 
become the father of an illegitimate child, had been rebuked for his transgression 
before the congregation, and had, in revenge, written witty and wicked verses or 
the reprimand and its occasion, to his correspondent Rankine. And when wi 
note here that he came into fierce collision with at least one section of the clerg_ 
of his country, all the conditions have been indicated which went to make up 
Burns the man and Burns the poet. 

Ayrshire was at this period a sort of theological bear-garden. The more im- 
portant clergymen of the district were divided into New Lights and Auld Lights; 
they wrangled in Church Courts, they wrote and harangued against eacti other; 
and, as the adherents of the one party or the other made up almost the entire 
population, and as in such disputes Scotchmen take an extraordinary interest, 
the county was set very prettily by the ears. The Auld Light divines were strict 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Calvinists, laying great stress on the doctrine of Justification by Faith, and inclined 
generally to exercise spiritual authority after a somewhat despotic fashion. The 
New Light divines were less dogmatic, less inclined to religious gloom and acerbity, 
and they possessed, on the whole, more literature and knowledge of the world. 
Burns became deeply interested in the theological warfare, and at once ranged 
himself on the liberal side. From his being a poet this was to have been expected, 
but various circumstances concurred in making his partisanship more than usually 
decided. The elder Burnes was, in his ways of thinking, a New Light, and his 
religious notions he impressed carefully on his children, — his son consequently, in 
taking up the ground he did, was acting in accordance with received ideas and 
with early training. Besides, Burns's most important friends at this period — 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton, from whom he held his farm on a sul)-lease, and Mr. Aitken, 
to whom the Cotter'' s Saturday Night was dedicated — were in the thick of the 
contest on the New Light side. Mr. Hamilton was engaged in personal dispute 
with the Rev. Mr. Auld — the clergyman who rebuked Burns — and Mr. Aitken 
had the management of the case of Dr. MacGill, who was cited before the local 
Church Courts on a charge of heterodoxy. Hamilton and Aitken held a certain 
position in the county, — they were full of talent, they were hospitable, they were 
witty in themselves, and could appreciate wit in others. They were of higher 
social rank than Burns's associates had hitherto been, they had formed a warm 
friendship for him, and it was not unnatural that he should become their ally, and 
serve their cause with what weapons he had. Besides, wit has ever been a foe to 
the Puritan. Cavaliers fight with song and jest, as well as with sword and spear, 
and sometimes more effectively. Hudibras and Worcester are flung into opposite 
scales, and make the balance even. From training and temperament, Burns was 
an enemy of the Auld Light section; conscious of his powers, and burning to 
distinguish himself, he searched for an opportunity as anxiously as ever did Irish- 
man for a head at Donnybrook, and when he found it, he struck, without too 
curiously inquiring into the rights and wrongs of the matter. At Masonic Meet- 
ings, at the tables of his friends, at fairs, at gatherings round church-doors on 
Sundays, he argued, talked, joked, flung out sarcasms — to be gathered up, 
repeated, and re-repeated — and maddened in every way the wild-boar of ortho- 
doxy by the javelins of epigram. The satirical opportunity at length came, and 
Burns was not slow to take advantage of it. Two Auld Light divines, the Rev. 
John Russel and the Rev. Alex. Moodie, quarrelled about their respective parochial 
boundaries, and the question came before the Presbytery for settlement. In the 
court — when Burns was present — the reverend gentlemen indulged in coarse 
personal altercation, and the Twa Herds was the result. Copies of this satire 
were handed about, and for the first time Burns tasted how sweet a thing was 
applause. The circle of his acquaintances extended itself, and he could now 
call several clergymen of the moderate party his friends. The Tfja Herds was 



iii BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



followed by the tremendous satire of Holy Willie's Prayer, and by the Holy 
Fair, — the last equally witty, equally familiar in its allusions to sacred things, 
out distinguished by short poetic touches, by descriptions of character and 
manners, unknown in Scottish poetry since the days of Dunbar. These pieces 
caused great stir; friends admired and applauded; foes hated and reviled. His 
brother Gilbert spoke words of caution which, had Burns heeded, it would have 
been better for his fame. But to check such thunder in mid-volley was, perhaps, 
more than could have been expected of poetic flesh and blood. 

Burna interested himself deeply in the theological disputes of his district, but 
he did not employ himself entirely in writing squibs against that section of the 
clergy which he disliked. He had already composed Maine's Elegy and the 
Epistle to Davie : the first working in an element of humor ennobled by moral 
reflection, a peculiar manner in which he lived to produce finer specimens; the 
second almost purely didactic, and which he hardly ever surpassed ; and as he 
was now in the full flush of inspiration, every other day produced its poem. 
He did not go far a-field for his subjects; he found sufficient inspiration in his 
daily life and the most familiar objects. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton had 
established a shop for groceries, and having a liking for the study of medicine, 
he took upon himself the airs of a physician, and advertised that " advice would 
be given in common disorders, at the shop, gratis." On one occasion, at the 
Tarbolton Mason-lodge, when Burns was present, the schoolmaster made a 
somewhat ostentatious display of his medical acquirements. To a man so 
easily moved as Burns, this hint was sufficient. On his way home from the 
Lodge the terrible grotesquerie of Death and Dr. Hornbook floated through 
his mind, and on the following afternoon the verses were repeated to Gilbert. 
Not long after, in a Sunday afternoon walk, he recited to Gilbert the Cotter's 
Saturday Alight, who described himself as electrified by the recital — as indeed 
he might well be. To Gilbert also the Address to the Deil was repeated while the 
two brothers were engaged with their carts in bringing home coals for family use. 
At this time, too, his poetic Epistles to Lapraik and others were composed — 
pieces which for verve and hurry and gush of versification seem to have been 
written at a sitting, yet for curious felicities of expression might have been under 
the file for years. It was Burns's habit, Mr. Chambers tells us, to keep his MSS. 
in the drawer of a little deal table in the garret at Mossgiel; and his youngest 
sister was wont, when he went out to afternoon labor, to slip up quietly and hunt 
for the freshly-written verses. Indeed, during the winter of 1785-86 Burns wrote 
almost all the poems which were afterwards published in the Kilmarnock edition. 

But at this time he had other matters on hand than the writing of verses. The 
farm at Mossgiel was turning out badly; the soil was sour and wet, and, from 
mistakes in the matter of seed, the crops were failures. His prospects were 
made still darker by his relation with Jean Armour. He had made the acquaint- 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



ance of this young woman at a penny wedding in Mauchline, shortly after he 
went to reside at Mossgiel, and the acquaintanceship, on his part at least, soon 
ripened into passion. In the spring of 1 786, when baited with farming difficulties, 
he learned t'lat Jean was about to become a mother, and the intelligence came on 
him like a thunder-clap. Urged by a very proper feeling, he resolved to make the 
unhappy young woman all the reparation in his power, and accordingly he placed 
in her hands a written acknowledgement of marriage — a document sufficient by 
the law of Scotland to legalize their connexion, though after a somewhat irregular 
fashion. When Mr. Armour heard of Jean's intimacy with Burns and its misera- 
ble result, he was moved with indignation, and he finally persuaded her to deliver 
into his hands Burns's written paper, and this document he destroyed, although, 
for anything he knew, he destroyed along with it his daughter's good fame. 
Burns's feelings at this crisis may be imagined. Pride, love, anger, despair, strove 
for mastery in his breast. Weary of his country, almost of his existence, and 
seeing ruin staling him in the face at Mossgiel, he resolved to seek better fortune 
and solace for a lacerated heart, in exile. He accordingly arranged with Dr. 
Douglas to act as book-keeper on his estate in Jamaica. In order to earn the 
passage money, he was advised to publish the wonderful verses then lying in the 
drawer of the deal t.able at Mossgiel. This advice jumped pleasantly enough with 
his own wishes, and without loss of time he issued his subscription papers and 
began to prepare for the press. lie knew that his poems possessed merit; he 
felt that applause would sweeten his "good night." It is curious to think of 
Burns's wretched state — in a spiritual as well as a pecuniary sense — at this lime, 
and of the centenary the other year which girdled the planet as with a blaze cf 
festal fire and a roll of triumphal drums ! Curit)us to think that the volume 
which Scotland regards as the most precious in her possession should have been 
published to raise nine pounds to carry its author into exile. 

All the world has heard of Highland Mary — in life a maid-servant in the family 
of Mr. Hamilton, after death to be rememberetl with Dante's Beatrice and 
Petrarch's Laura. How Burns and Mary became acquainted we have little means 
of knowing — indeed the whole relationship is somewhat obscure — but Burns 
loved her as he loved no other woman, and her memory is preserved in the finest 
expression of his love and grief. Strangely enough, it seems to have been in the 
fierce rupture between himself and Jean that this white flower of love sprang up, 
sudden in its growth, brief in its passion and beauty. It was arranged that the 
lovers should become man and wife, and that ]\Iary should return to her friends to 
prepare for her wedding. Before her departure there was a farewell scene. " On 
the second Sunday of May," Burns writes to Mr. Thomson, after an historical 
fashion which has something touching in it, " in a sequestered spot on the banks 
of the -Vyr the interview took place." The lovers met and plighted solemn troth. 
According to popular statement, they stood on either side of a brook, they dipped 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



their hands in the water, exchanged Bibles — and parted. Mary died at Greenock, 

and was buried in a dingy churchyard hemmed by narrow streets — beclanged now 
by innumerable hammers, and within a stone's tlirow of passing steamers. Infor- 
mation of her death was brought to Burns at Mossgiel; he went to the window to 
read the letter, and the family noticed that on a sudden his face changed. He went 
out without speaking; they respected his grief and were silent. On the whole 
matter Burns remained singularly reticent; but years after, from a sudden geysir of 
impassioned song, we learn that through all that time she had never been forgotten. 

Jean was approaching her confinement, and having heard that Mr. Armour was 
about to resort to legal measures to force him to maintain his expected progeny — 
an impossibility in his present circumstances — Burns left Mauchline and went to 
reside in the neighborhood of Kilmarnock, where, in gloomy mood enough, he 
corrected his proof sheets. The volume appeared about the end of July, and 
thanks to the exertion of his friends, the impression was almost immediately 
exhausted. Its success was decided. All Ayrshire rang with its praise. His 
friends were of course anxious that he should remain in Scotland; and as they 
possessed some influence, he lingered in Ayrshire, loth to depart, hoping that 
something would turn up, but quite undecided as to the complexion and nature of 
the desired something. Wronged as he considered himself to have been by the 
Armour family, he was still conscious of a lingering affection for Jean. The poems, 
having made a conquest of Ayrshire, began to radiate out on every side. Professor 
Dugald Stewart, then resident at Catrine, had a copy of the poems, and Dr. Blair, 
who was on a visit to the professor, had his attention drawn to them, and expressed 
the warmest admiration. Mrs. Diinlop of Dunlop on opening the book had been 
electrified by the Cotier^s Saturday Night, as Gilbert had been before her, and 
immediately sent an express to Burns at Mossgiel with a letter of praise and thanks. 
All this was pleasant enough, but it did not materially mend the situation. Burns 
could not live on praise alone, and accordingly, so soon as he could muster nine 
guineas from the sale of his book, he took a steerage passage in a vessel which was 
expected to sail from Greenock at the end of September. During the month of 
August he seems to have employed himself in collecting subscriptions, and taking 
farewell of his friends. Burns was an enthusiastic Mason, and we can imagine 
that his last meeting with the Tarbolton Lodge would be a thing to remember. It 
was remembered, we learn from Mr. Chambers, by a surviving brother, John Lees. 
John said, " that Burns came in a pair of buckskins, out of which he would always 
pull the other shilling for the other bowl, till it was five in the morning. An 
awfu' night thaty Care left outside the door, we can fancy how the wit v.ould 
flash, and the big black eyes glow, on such an occasion ! 

The first edition of his poems being nearly exhausted, his friends encouraged him 
to produce a second forthwith; but, on application, it was found that the Kilmar- 
nock printer declined to undertake tlia risk, unless the price of the paper was 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



advanced beforehand. This outlay Burns was at this time unable to afford. On 
hearing of the circumstance, his friend Mr. Ballantyne offered to advance the 
money, but urged hi.ii to proceed to Edinburgh and publish the second edition 
there. This advice commended itself to Burns's amljition, but for a while he 
remained irresolute. Jean, meanwhile, had been confined of twins, and from one 
of his letters we learn that the " feelings of a father " kept him lingering in 
Ayrshire. News of the success of his poems came in upon him on every side. 
Dr. Lawrie, minister of Loudon, to whose family he had recently paid a visit, had 
forwarded a copy of the poems, with a sketch of the author's life, to Dr. Thomas 
Blacklock, and had received a letter from that gentleman, expressing the warmest 
admiration of the writer's genius, and urging that a second and larger edition 
should at once be proceeded with; adding, that "its intrinsic merits, and the 
exertions of the author's friends, might give the volume a more universal circulation 
than anything of the kind which has been published in my time." This letter, so 
full of encouragement, Dr. Lawiie carried at once to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, and Mr. 
Hamilton lost no time in placing it in Burns's hands. The poems had been favor- 
ably reviewed in the Edinburgh Magazine for October, and this number of the 
periodical, so interesting to all its inmates, would, no doubt, find its way to Mossgiel. 
Burns seems to have made up his mind to proceed to Edinburgh about the iSth 
November, a step which was warmly approved by his brother Gilbert; and when 
his resolution was taken, he acted upon it with promptitude. 

He reached Edinburgh on the 2Sth November, 1786, and took up his residence 
with John Richmond, a Mauchline acquaintance, who occupied a room in Baxter's 
Close, Lawnmarket, for which he paid three shillings a week. Burns for some time 
after his arrival seems to have had no special object ; he wandered about the city, 
looking down from the castle on Princes Street; haunting Holyrood Palace and 
Chapel; standing with cloudy eyelid and hands meditatively knit beside the grave 
of Fergusson; and from the Canongate glancing up with interest on the quaint tene- 
ment in which Allan Ramsay kept his shop, wrote his poems, and curled the wigs 
of a departed generation of Scotsmen. At the time of Burns's arrival, the Old 
Town towered up from Holyrood to the Castle, picturesque, smoke- wreathed; and 
when the darkness came, its climbing tiers of lights and cressets were reflected in 
the yet existing Nor' Loch; and the gray uniform streets and squares of the New 
Town — from which the visitor to-day can look down on low wooded lands, the 
Forth, and Fife beyond — were only in course of erection. The hterary society of 
the time was brilliant but exotic, like the French lily or the English rose. For a 
generation and more the Scottish philosophers, historians, and poets had brought 
their epigram from P'rance as they brought their claret, and their humor from Eng- 
land as they brought their parliamentary intelligence. Blair of the Grave was a 
Scottish Dr. Young; Home of Douglas a Scottish Otway; Mackenzie a Scottish 
Addison; and Dr. Blair — so far as his criticism was concerned — a sort of Scottish 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Dr. Johnson. The Scotch lirain was genuine enough; the faculty was native, but 
it poured itself into foreign moulds. The literary grandees wore decorations — 
honestly earned — but no one could discover amongst them the Order of the Thistle. 
These men, too, had done their work, and the burly black-eyed, humorous, pas- 
sionate ploughman came up amongst them, the herald of a new day and a new order 
of things; the first king of a new literary empire, in which he was to be succeeded 
by Walter Scott, — then a lad of sixteen, engrossing deeds in his father's office, 
with the Tweed murmuring in his ears, and Melrose standing in the light of his 
opening imagination — with Hogg, Gait, Wilson, Lockhart, and the rest, for his 
satraps and lieutenants. 

Burns's arrival in Edinburgh was an historical event, far more important in itself, 
and in its issues, than either he or than any other person suspected. 

He soon got to work, however. In Ayrshire he had made the acquaintance of 
Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield; that gentleman introduced him to his brother-in- 
law, the Earl of Glencairn, then resident in Edinburgh ; and his lordship introduced 
him to AVilliam Creech, the leading publisher in the city, at whose shop the wits 
were wont to congregate. Creech undertook the publication of the new edition; 
and, through the influence of Glencairn, it was arranged tliat the Caledonian Hunt 
should subscribe for a hundred copies, and that a guinea should be paid for each. 
Meantime, Mr. Mackenzie, in the Lounger, of date 9th December, wrote a glowing 
criticism on the poems, which smoothed a way for them into the politer circles. 
The new edition, dedicated to the Caledonian Hunt, appeared on the 2ist April, 
1787, containing a list of subscribers' names extending to more than thirty-eight 
pages. The Hunt, as we have seen, took one hundred copies, and several gentle- 
men and noblemen subscribed liberally — one taking twenty copies, a second forty 
copies, a third forty-two copies. The Scots Colleges in France and Spain are also 
set down as subscribers among individual names. This was splendid success, and 
Eurns felt it. He was regarded as a phenomenon ; was asked hither and thither, 
frequently from kindness and pure admiration — often, however, to be merely 
talked with and stared at : this he felt, too, and his vengeful spleen, well kept 
under on the whole, corroded his heart like a fierce acid. Durinj the winter pre- 
ceding the publication of the second edition, he was feted and caressed. He was 
patronized by the Duchess of Gordon. Lord Glencairn was his friend, so also was 
Henry Erskine. He was frequently at Lord Monboddo's, where he admired the 
daughter's beauty more than the father's philosophy; he breakfasted with Dr. 
Blair; he walked in the mornings to the Bvaid Hills with Professor Dugald Stew- 
art; and he frequently escaped from these lofty circles to the Masonic Lodge, or 
to the supper-tables of convivial la\vyers, where he felt no restraint, where he could 
be wounded by no patronage, and where he flashed and coruscated, and_became 
the soul of the revel. Fashionable and lettered saloons were astonished by Burns's 
talk ; but the interior of taverns — and in Edinburgh tavern life was all but uni- 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



versal at the time — saw the brighter and more constant blaze. This sudden 
change of fortune — so different from his old life in the Irvine flax heckling-shop, 
or working the sour Mossgicl lands, or the post of a book-keeper in Jamaica, which 
he looked forward to and so narrowly escaped — was not without its giddy and 
exciting pleasures, and for j^leasurc of every kind Burns had the keenest relish. 
Now and again, too, in the earlier days of his Edinburgh life, when success wore 
its newest gloss, and applause had a novel sweetness, a spirit of exhilaration escaped 
him, not the less real that it was veiled in a little scornful exaggeration. In 
writing to Mr. Hamilton, he says: "For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of 
becoming as eminent as Thomas h. Kempis, or John Bunyan; and you may expect 
henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events in the Poor 
Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with Black Monday and the battle of 
Bothwell Bridge." In any case, if he did feel flattered by the attention paid him 
by society, he had time to cool and strike a balance in his friend Richmond's gar- 
ret in the Lawnmarket — where he slept, Mr. Lockhart informs us, during the 
whole of that glittering and exciting winter. 

Hitherto, the world had seen but little of Burns personally. It had heard his 
voice as of one singing behind the scenes, and been moved to admiration; and 
when he presented himself in the full blaze of the footlights, he became the 
cynosure of every eye, and the point on which converged every critical opera-glass. 
Edinburgh and Burns confronted each other. Edinburgh " took stock " of Burns, 
Burns " took stock " of Edinburgh, and it is interesting to note the mutual 
impressions. From all that can be gathered from Dr. Blair, Professors Dugald 
Stewart, Walker, and others. Burns acquitted himself in his new circumstances 
admirably. He never lost head, he never let a word of exultation escape him, his 
deportment was everywhere respectful yet self-possessed ; he talked well and freely 
— for he knew he was expected to talk — but he did not engross conversation. 
His " deferential " address won his way to female favor : a.id the only two 
breaches of decorum which are recorded of him in society, may be palliated by his 
probable ignorance of his host's feelings and vanities on the first occasion, and on 
the second, by the peculiar provocation he received. Asked in Dr. Blair's house, 
and in Dr^ Blair's presence, from which of the city preachers he had derived the 
greatest gratification, it would have been fulsome had Burns said, turning to the 
Doctor, " I consider you. Sir, the greatest pulpit orator I have ever heard." The 
question was a most improper one in the circumstances; and if the company were 
thrown into a state of foolish embarrassment, and the host's feelings wounded by 
Burns giving the palm to his colleague — then the company were simply toadies 
of the sincerer sort, and the host less skilled in the world's ways than Burns, and 
possessed of less natural good-breeding. In the second instance when, in a sen- 
tence mort remarkable for force than grace, he extinguished a clergyman who 
abused Gray's Elegy, but who could not quote a line of it correctly, he merely gave 



BIO GRAPHICAL PRE FA CE. 



way to a swift and not ungenerous instinct — for whicJi he was, no doubt, sorry 
the next moment. He cannot be defended altogether, although even here one can 
hardly help rendering him a sneaking approval. Bad language at a breakfast-table, 
and addresf^d to a clergyman, is improper — but, on the other hand, no clergyman 
has a right to be a bore at a breakfast-table. Indeed, your critical and blundering 
bore, whether clergj-man or no — all the more sedulously, perhaps, if he be a clergy- 
man — should keep out of the way of a Burns. Evil is certain to befall him if he 
do not. It is pretty evident, however, from the records left, that Dr. Blair, Dugald 
Stewart, and others, did not really know Burns — did not, in fact, take much pains 
to know him. They never met him on frank, cordial, and brotherly terms. They 
looked on him curiously, as one looks on a strange insect, through a microscope. 
From their learned heights they regarded him as on the plain beneath. They 
were ever ready with advice, and counselled him to stand armed at points where 
no danger could possibly appear. Of all the good things in the world, advice is 
practically the least useful. If a man is fool enough to need advice, the chances 
are he will be fool enough to resent it when given, or neglect it when the critical 
moment arrives. The Edinburgli literati did not quite well know what to make of 
Burns. He was a new thing under the sun, and they could not fall back on pre- 
cedent. They patronized him kindly, heartily, for the most part — but still it was 
patronage. And it has come about that, in the lapse of seventy years, the relations 
of the parties have been quite reversed — as in dissolving views, the image of Burns 
has come out in bolder relief and brighter colors, while his patrons have lost 
outline, have dwindled, and become shadowy. Dr. Blair and Lord Monboddo 
will be remembered mainly by the circumstance that the one invited Burns to his 
evening entertainments, and the other to his breakfasts. Burns has kept that 
whole literary generation from oblivion, and from oblivion he will keep it yet 
awhile. 

On the other hand, it is quite evident, that although Burns, during that brilliant 
winter, masked himself skilfully, he bore an inward smart. He felt that he was 
regarded as meteoric, a wonder; that he did not fit into existing orders of things, 
and that in Edinburgh he had no familiar and received status. Consequently, he 
was never sure of his ground; and while, for the most part, careful to oflend no 
one, he was passionately jealous of condescension and suspicious of personal affront. 
The men amongst whom he mingled had their positions in the world, and in these 
positions they had the ease of use and wont. Their couches were made soft by 
the down of customariness. They had all the social proprieties and traditions at 
their backs. From the past, they flowered out socially and professionally. With 
Burns everything was diherent. He had in Edinburgh, so to speak, neither father 
nor mother. He had neither predecessor nor antecedent. ' He could roll in no 
groove made smooth by custom; and hence it is, when in bitter mood, we find 
him making such extravagant claims for genius against dull rich men, or dul\ well- 



BIO GRAPHICAL PRE FA CE. 



born men, or semi-dull inen, who had been successful in the professions. He knew 
thnt genius was liis sole claim to the notice of the l)rilliant personages he met 
night after night; that but for it he was a small Ayrshire farmer, whom not one of 
those people would invite to their tables, or bid " Good day " to, if they met him 
on a country road. It was admirable in .Scott, to waive, as he continually did, all 
claim to special regard on account of his genius, but it was easy for Scott to do 
thii. Scott would have dined well every day of his life, he would have lived with 
cultivated and refined people, and would have enjoyed a fair share of social dis- 
tinction, although he had never written Mar»iion or Ivanhoe. But Burns's sole 
title to notice was genius — take that from him, he was instantly denuded of his 
singing rolies, and left in the hodden gray of the farmer, with a splash of mud on 
his top-boots. In his commonplace book — a very pool of Marah — which he 
kept at Edinburgh, there is an entry which brings all this out in a clear light. 

" There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more uneasiness and 
chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of avowed worth, is 
received everywhere, with the reception which a mere ordinary character, decorated 
with the trappings and futile distinctions of fortune, meets. Imagine a man of 
abilities, his heart glowing with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, 
still giving honor to w/iom honor is due ; he meets at a great man's table a Squire 
Something, or a Sir Somebody; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond perhaps any one at 
table; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abilities would scarcely 
have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart is not worth three farthings, 
meet with attention and notice, that are withheld from the son of genius and 
poverty ! 

" The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, 
respect, and love him. He shovced so much attention, engrossing attention, one 
day, to the only blockhead at table (the whole company consisted of his lord- 
ship, dunder-pate, and myself), that I was within half a point of throwing down my 
gage of contemptuous defiance; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo- 
lently good at parting. God bless him! though I should never see him more I 
shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable of the 
throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other virtues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I never respect him with humble 
veneration; but when he kindly interests himself in my v/elfare, or, still more, 
when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground in conver- 
sation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects me for 
the mere carcase of greatness, or when his eye measures the difference of our 
points of elevation, I say to myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care for 
him, or his pomp cither? " 

A man like Burns, living at a period when literature had not to any extent 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



could find accommodalion neither in Castle nor Inn, he left an epigram which has 
become famous. In a letter to Mr. J. Smith, — a fair specimen of his more familiar 
epistolary style, — dated 30th June, we have some slight information respecting his 
doings, and a description of certain " high jinks " in the north, in which he was 
an actor. Although the letter is dated as above, it does not state at what place it 
was written — Burns, perhaps, wishing to keep his secret. 

" On our return, at a highland gentleman's hospitable mansion, we fell in with a 
merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the morning. Our' 
dancing was none of the French or English insipid formal movements; the ladies 
sung Scotch songs like angels, at intervals; then we flew at ' Bab at the Bowster,' 
' TuUochgorum,' ' Loch Erroch Side,' &c., like midges sporting in the mottie sun, 
or crows prognosticating a storm on a hairsl day. When the dear lassies left us, 
we ranged round the bowl, to the good-fellow hour of six; except a few minutes 
that we went out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the 
towering top of Ben Lomond. We all kneeled; our worthy landlord's son held 
the bowl, each man a full glass in his hand; and I, as priest, repeated some rhym- 
ing nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies, I suppose. After a small 
refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day on Loch Lomond 
?nd reached Dunbarton in the evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, 
and consequently pushed the bottle ; when we went out to mount our horses, we 
found ourselves ' No vera fou, but gaylie yet.' My two friends and I rode 
soberly down the Loch side, till by came a Ilighlandman at the gallop, on a 
tolerably good horse, but which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. 
We scorned to be out-galloped by a Ilighlandman, so off we started, ^hip and spur. 
My companions though seemingly gniiy mounted, fell sadly astern; but my old 
mare Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinate family, strained past the Ilighlandman, 
in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter. Just ciS I was passing him, Donald 
wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me, to mar my progress, when down came 
his horse, and threw his breekless rider in a dipt hedge; and down came Jenny 
Geddes over all, and my hardship between her and the Mighlandman's horse. Jenny 
Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that matters were not so bad 
as might have been expected ; so I came off with a few cuts and bruises, and a 
thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 

" I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, 
just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless idle fellow. However, 
I sliall somewhere have a farm soon." 

Whatever motive may have induced Burns to visit the West Highlands, he 
returned to Mossgiel somewhat shaken by the escapade related above. During 
the ensuing month he wrote his autobiographical sketch to Dr. Moore, affd on the 
7th August he returned to Edinburgh to settle business matters with his i^uhlisher, 
and to arrange other excursions through districts of the country in which he had a 
poetic interest. 



BIOGRAPHTCAL PREFACE. 



Near the close of August, Burns and Nicol started on a northern tour. They 
went by Falkirk and Stirling, visited the field of Bannockburn, and on their return 
to Stirling, Burns, with a diamond which he had recently purchased — the most 
unfortunate of all his investments, as it turned out — scribbled certain perilous 
verses on a window-pane of the inn. They then struck into Perthsliirc, admired 
the Falls of Moness, where Burns wrote The Birks of AberfeUy ; visited Blair, 
the seat of the Duke of Athole, where they were hospitably entertained, and 
where Burns met his future patron, Mr. Graham of Fintry, and narrowly missed 
meeting Mr. Dundas — a piece of ill-fortune which his biographers agree in 
lamenting. The travellers then proceeded to Inverness, went to CuUoden, spent 
some time at the ruined cathedral at Elgin; crossed the Spey, and visited the 
Duke of Gordon — which visit was cut short by an ebullition of wounded pride on 
the part of Nicol. From Castle Gordon they came by Banff to Aberdeen; Burns 
then crossed into Kincardineshire — of whicli county his father was a native — 
and spent some time in hunting up his relations there. He then went to Mon- 
trose, where he met his cousin, Mr. James Burness, and returned to Edinburgh by 
Perth and Dundee. 

In the beginning of Octolier, ac:ording to INIr. Chambers, — for there seems to 
be a little obscurity as to date, — Burns, accompanied by Dr. Adair, set out on a 
visit to Sir William Murray of Ochtertyre, and passing through Stirling, he broke 
the pane in the inn on which he had inscribed the treasonable lines. Unhappily, 
■however, he^ould not by this means put them out of existence, as they had l^een 
widely copied and circulated, and were alive in many memories. At Ochtertyre he 
spent one or two pleasant days; and while in the neighborhood he took the 
opportunity of visiting Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan, who was in possession of the 
helmet and sword of the Bruce, and with the latter she conferred on the poet and 
his guide the honor of knighthood, remarking as she did so, that she had a better 
right to give the title than some people. He returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
ana Queensferry, and while at Dunfermline some circumstances took place, trivial 
in themselves, but important as exhibiting what rapid changes took place in the 
■weather of the pt)et's mind. 

" At Dunfermline," says Dr. Adair, " we visited the ruined abbey and the abbey 
church, now consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted the cutfy stool, 
or stool of repentance, assuming the character of a penitent for fornication, while 
Burns from the pulpit addressed to me a ridiculous reproof and exhortation, 
parodied from that which had been delivered to himself in Ayrshire, where he had, 
as he assured me, once been one of seven who mounted the seat of shame together. 

" In the churchyard two broad flagstones marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for 
whose memory Burns had more than common veneration. He knelt and kissed 
the stone with sacred fervor, and heartily execrated the worse than Gothic neglect 
of the first of Scottish heroes." 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Burns was now resident in St. James's Square, in the house of William Cruick- 
shank, who was, like Nicol, connected with the Edinburgh High School. His 
chief business was the arrangement of publishing matters with Creech, and he was 
anxious to come to some definite conclusion with Mr. Miller regarding a farm at 
Dalswinton. On his return from Ochtertyre he wrote that gentleman in practical 
terms enough : " I want to be a farmer in a small farm, about a plough-gang, in a 
pleasant country, under the auspices of a good landlord. I have no foolish notion 
of being a tenant on easier terms than another. To find a farm where one can live 
at all is not easy. I only mean living soberly, like an old style farmer, and joining 
pefsonal industry. The banks of the Nith are as sweet poetic ground as any I ever 
saw; and besides, sir, 'tis but justice to the feelings of my own heart, and the 
opinion of my best friends, to say that I would wish to call you landlord sooner 
than any landed gentleman I know. These are my views and wishes; and in 
whatever way you think best to lay out your farms, I shall be happy to rent one 
of them. I shall certainly be able to ride to Dalswinton about the middle of next 
week." Burns, however, did not go to Dumfiiesshire so early as he expected. 
There was dilatoriness on Creech's part regarding settlements as to the poems; 
there was perhaps dilatoriness on Burns's part regarding the farm : at all events, 
autumn had glided into winter, and he remained in Edinburgh without having 
come to a conclusion with either. The m inter, however, was destined to open one 
of the strangest chapters in his strange story. At this time he made the acquaint- 
ance of Mrs. M'Lehose, the Clarir.da of so many impassioned letteijib This lady, 
who was possessed of no common beauty and intelligence, had been deserted by 
her husband, and was bringing up her children in somewhat narrow circumstances. 
They met at tea in the house of a common friend, and were pleased with each 
other's conversation. The second night after, Burns was to have drunk tea by 
invitation at the house of Mrs. M'Lehose, but having been upset the previous 
evening by a drunken coachman, and brought home with a knee severely bruised, 
he was obliged to forego that pleasure. He wrote the lady, giving the details of 
the accident, and expressing regret that he was unable to leave his room. The 
lady, who was of a temperament generous and impulsive, replied at once, giving 
.utterance to her regret, and making Burns a formal proffer of her sympathy and 
friendship. Burns was enraptured, and returned an answer after the following 
fashion : — 

" I stretch a point, indeed, my dearest madam, when I answer your card on the 
rack of my present agony. Your friendship, madam ! By heavens ! I was never 
proud before. . . . T swear solemnly (in all the terror of my former oath) to 
remember you in all the pride and warmth of friendship until — I cease to be ! 

"To-morrow, and every d:\y till 1 see you, you shall hear from me. 

" Farewell ! May you enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely to have." 

The correspondence, so rapturously opened, proceeded quite as rapturously. It 



BIOGRAPinCAL PREFACE. 



was arranged that in the future Burns should sign himself Sylvandei; and the lady 
Clarinda. Each day gave birth to its epistle. Poems were interchanged. Sighs 
were wafted from St. James's Square to the Potterow. Clarinda was a " gloriously 
amiable fine woman," and Sylvander was her "devoted slave." Clarinda chid 
Sylvander tenderly for the warmth of his expressions. Sylvander was thrown 
into despair by the rebuke, but protested that he was not to blame. Who could 
behold her superior charms, her fine intelligence, and not love? who could love 
and be silent ? Clarinda had strong Calvinistic leanings, and Sylvander, who could 
not pardon these things in Ayrshire clergymen, afld was accustomed to call them 
by quite other names, was " delighted by her honest enthusiasm for religion." 
Clarinda was to be passing on a certain day through the square in which Sylvan- 
der lived, and promised to favor him with a nod, should she be so fortunate as to 
see him at his window; and wrote sorrowing, the day after, that she had been 
unable to discover his window. Sylvander was inconsolable. Not able to discover 
his window ! lie could almost have thrown himself over it for very vexation. His 
peace is spoiled for the day. He is sure the soul is capable of disease, for his has 
convulsed itself into an inflammatory fever, and so on. During this period of let- 
ter-writing. Burns and Mrs. M'Lehose had met several times in her own house, 
and on these occasions he had opportunities of making her aware of his dismal 
prospects. The results of his renewed intercourse with Jean on his return to Ayr- 
shire were now becoming apparent; tliis was communicated to her along with other 
matters, and Mrs. M'Lehose was all forgiveness — tempered with rebuke, and a 
desire for a more Calvinistic way of thinking on his part on religious subjects. 
That the affection of Burns for the lady was rooted in anything deeper than fancy, 
and a natural delight in intelligence and a pleasing manner, may be doubted. His 
Clari7ida letters are artificial, and one suspects the rhetorician in the swelling sen- 
tences and the exaggerated sentiment. With regard to Mrs. M'Lehose there can 
be no mistake. Her letters are far superior to Burns's, being simple, natural, and 
with a pathetic cadence in some portions which has not yet lost the power to affect. 
She loved Burns, and hoped, if he would but wait till existing ties were broken, 
to be unij;ed to him. But Burns could not wait, the correspondence drooped, and 
a year saw all passion 

" Die away, 
And fade into the light of common day " ; 

the common day of Jean Armour, Ellisland, and the Excise. 

When Burns at this period, confined to his room by an angry limb, in the mid- 
dle of his Clarinda correspondence, and tortured with suspicions of Creech's insol- 
vency — of which some ugly rumors had reached him — ■ was made aware that Jean 
was about to become again a mother, and that her father had thrust her from his 
house in anger, he was perhaps more purely wretched than at any other period of 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



his life. In his own breast there was a passionate tumult and remorse. Look 
where he would, no blue spot was to be discovered in the entire sky of his pros- 
pects. He had felt the sweetness of applause : he was now to experience the 
bitterness of the after-taste. He was a " lion " whose season had passed. Ilis 
great friends seemed unwilling or unable to procure him a post. He had l)een 
torn from his old modes of life, and in the new order of things which surrounded 
him he could find nothing permanent, nothing that would cohere. Time was 
jjassing; his life was purposeless; he was doing nothing, effecting nothing; he 
was flapping in the wind like an -unbraced sail. At this juncture he resolved to 
bring matters to a conclusion, after one fashion or another. In his letters, the old 
scheme of emigration to the West Indies turns up bitterly for a moment. Then 
he bethought himself of a post in the Excise, which had always been a dream of 
his, and the possibility of his obtaining which had been discussed by his Ayrshire 
friends before he became famous. If such a position could be secured it would 
be at least something, something in itself, something to fall back upon should his 
farming schemes prove abortive. He accordingly wrote the Earl of Clencairn, 
soliciting his patronage, but the application appears to have been followed by no 
result. Mr. Graham, of Fintry, whose acquaintance Burns had made at Blair, the 
seat of the Duke of Athole, having heard of his wish, through the kind offices of 
Mr. Alexander Wood, the surgeon who attended him, immediately placed his 
name on the list of expectant officers. Having arranged his Excise business so 
far, he left Edinburgh to have another look at Mr. Miller's farms, and to come to 
an agreement, if possible. He took a friend with him on whose sagacity and 
business skill he could confide; and after a deliberate inspection of the lands, he 
was better satisfied than he had been on a former occasion, and at once made an 
offer to Mr. Miller for the farm at Ellisland, which was accepted. On his return 
to Edinburgh he announced his resolution to his friend Miss Chalmers : 

"Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. jNIiller, of Dalswinton, for the farm 
of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. 
I begin at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, &c., and Heaven be my help! 
for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I 
have discharged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures — a 
motley host ! and have literally and strictly retained (mly the ideas of a few friends, 
which I have incorporated into a life-guard." 

Burns's business at this time in Edinburgh related to his settlement with Creech, 
which, after many delays, was about to take place. In all, he appears to have 
received between ^"400 and /"soo, and out of this sum he advanced ;i^ iSo to his 
brother Gilbert, who was struggling manfully at Mossgiel. On the 24th March, 
with much business on hand, he left Edinburgh for Ayrshire, where he married 
Jean Armour — snapping thereby the chief link which bound him to the metropolis. 
This union, putting moral considerations out of the question altogether, was the 



BIO GRAPHICAL PRE FA CE. 



most prudent course open to liim, and it repaired the fabric of self-respect wliich 
liad l)een, to some extent at least, broken down. For a time wn hear nothing i>i 
the " wandering stabs of remorse," and his letters breathe a quite unusual content- 
edness. He had made some little self-sacrifice, and he tasted the happiness which 
always arises from the consciousness of self-sacrifice. Besides, he had loved the 
girl, perhaps loved her all through, although the constant light of affection had, to 
himself as well as to others, been obscured by the glare of fiercer and more tran- 
sitory fires; and if so — the sacrifice not so great as he supposed it to be — he was 
plainly a gainer both ways. Burns was placed at this lime in difficult circum- 
stances, and he simply made the best of them. lie could build only with the 
materials within reach. There was nothing left but to begin life again as a farmer, 
and it behoved him to wear russet on heart as well as on limb. In the heyday 
of his Edinburgh success he foresaw the probability of his return to the rural shades, 
and to these shades he had now returned — but he returned with reputation, ex- 
perience, an unreproving conscience, some little money in hand, and with solider 
prospects of happiness than had ever yet fallen to his lot. Happiness he did taste 
for a few months, — and then out of the future came the long shadows of disaster, 
fated not to pass away, but to gather deeper and darker over a grave which was 
dug too early, — and yet too late. 

When Burns entered into possession of Ellisland, at Whitsunday, 17SS, he left 
his wife at Mauchline till the new dwelling-house should be erected. In the mean- 
time he was sufficiently busy; he had to superintend masons and carpenters, as 
well as look after more immediate farm matters. Besides, in order to qualify him- 
self for holding his Excise Commission, he had to give attendance at Ayr for six 
weeks on the duties of his new profession. These occupations, together with 
occasional visits to his wife and family, kept him fully occupied. Hope had sprung 
up in his bosom like a Jonah's gourd, and while the greenness lasted he was happy 
enough. During his solitary life at Ellisland, he wrote two or three of his finest 
songs, each of them in praise of Jean, and each giving evidence that his heart was 
at rest. During this lime, too, a somewhat extensive correspondence was kept up, 
and activity and hopefulness — only occasionally dashed by accesses of his consti- 
tutional melancholy — radiate through it all. As was natural, his letters relate, for 
the most part, to his marriage and his new prospects. As respects his marriage, he 
takes abundant care to make known that, acting as he had done, he had acted 
prudently; that he had secured an admirable wife, and that in his new relationship 
he was entirely satisfied. If any doubt should exist as to Burns's satisfaction, it 
can arise only from his somewhat too frequent protestation of it. He takes care to 
inform his correspondenis that he has actually married Jean, that he would have 
been a scoundrel had he declined to marry her, and that she possessed the sweetest 
temper and the handsomest figure in the country. The truth is, that, in the matter 
of matrimony, he could not very well help himself. He was aware that the match 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFA CE. 



was far from a brilliant one, and as he really loved his wife, he had to argue down 
that feeling in his own heart; he was aware that his correspondents did not con- 
sider it brilliant, and he had also to argue down that feeling in theirs. Meanwhile, 
the house at Ellisland was getting finished. In the first week of December he 
brought home his wife, and in the pride of his heart he threw off a saucy little song, 

" I hae a wife o' my ain," 

which quivers through every syllable of it with a homely and assured delight that 
laughs at all mischance. Mrs. Burns brought her children and a whole establish- 
ment of servants. The house was small, its accommodation was limited, and Burns 
sat at meals with his domestics, and on Sunday evenings, after the good old Scot- 
tish fashion, he duly catechized them. He has himself left on record that this was 
the happiest portion of his life. He had friends, with whom he maintained an 
intimate correspondence; he had a wife who loved him; his passionate and way- 
ward heart was at rest in its own happiness; he could see the grain yellowing in 
his own fields ; he had the Excise Commission in his pocket on which he could fall 
back if anything went wrong; and on the red scaur above the river, he could stride 
about, giving audience to incommunicable thought, while the Nith was hoarse with 
flood, and the moon was wading through clouds overhead. When should he 
have been happy, if not now? 

Burns's farming operations during the second year of his occupancy of Ellisland 
were not successful, and in the more unrestrained letters of the period we find him 
complaining of his hard fate in being obliged to make one guinea do the work of 
five. As the expense of his family was now rapidly increasing, he requested to be 
allowed to enter at once on his duties as officer of Excise. That in his new mode 
of Hfe he would encounter unpleasantnesses he knew, and was prepared for them; 
but he expected that Mrs. Burns would be able to manage the farm for the most 
part, — in any case his salary as Exciseman would be a welcome addition to his 
means. He was appointed on application, he entered zealously on his duties, and 
as his district extended over ten parishes, he was forced to ride about two hundred 
miles per week. This work, taken in conjunction with labor at Ellisland, which, 
constantly getting into arrear, demanded fierce exertion at intervals, was too much 
for even his iron frame. He had attacks of illness, and his constitutional hypo- 
chondria ruled him with a darker sceptre than ever. It appears evident from his 
letters that he meant to make his fight at Ellisland, and that he considered the 
Excise as a second line of defence on which he could fall back in the event of 
defeat. At Ellisland he 7uiis defeated, and on his second line of defence he fell 
back grimly enough. An Excise officer is not a popular character in cauntry dis- 
tricts where smugglers abound; and whatever degree of odium might attach to his 
new profession, Burns was certain to feel more keenly than most. One can see 
that in his new relation his haughty spirit was ill at ease; that he suspected a sort 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



of meanness in himself; and that the thought that he had in any way stooped or 
condescended was gall and wormwood. His bitterness on this matter escapes in 
various and characteristic ways. At one time he treats the matter with imperial 
disdain, declaring that he does not intend " to seek honor from his profession " ; 
at another time in a set of impromptu verses he mocks at his occupation and him- 
self, illuminating the whole business with a flame of spleenful mirth. But the step 
he had taken was unquestionably a prudent one, and if it miscarried, it miscarried 
from foreign causes. From every account which survives, he was an excellent and 
zealous officer, and into his work he carried eyes which were at once sharp and 
kindly. It was not in his nature to be harsh or tyrannical. A word revealed 
secrets to him, a glance let him into the bearings of a case; and while he saw that 
the interests of Government did not materially suffer, his good nature and kind- 
heartedness were always at hand to make matters as pleasant as possible. One or 
two of these Excise anecdotes are amongst the pleasantest remembrances we have 
of Burns. His professional prospects were on Uie whole far from despicable. On 
his farm he was losing money, health, and hope; but in the Excise he looked 
forward to advancement, — an Inspectorship" or Supervisorship being regarded as 
within his reach. 

If Ellisland had only been profitable. Burns might have been considered a fortu- 
nate man. For his own wants and for those of his family the cottage which he had 
built sufficed. The scenery around him was beautiful. He was on good terms 
with the neighboring proprietors, and his reputation attracted visitors from many 
quarters. He procured books from Edinburgh and from the circulating library 
which — with that regard for mental means and appliances which seems to have 
been u characteristic of his race — he had established in the vicinity. Every other 
day letters and newspapers were arriving at Ellisland, connecting him with distant 
places and events; and the stranger who dropped in upon him from London or 
Edinburgh, or even from places more remote, brought talk, ideas, observations on 
this thing and the other more or less valuable, stimulus, excitement, — all tending 
to enrich intellectual life. And during this time he was no mental sluggard. He 
worked his brain as he worked his servants on the acres at Ellisland, or his horse 
as ho rock on the scent of a smuggler through the Nithsdale moors. He carried 
on a multifarious correspondence, he wrote his letters carefully — only a little too 
carefully sometimes, for he is occasionally modish and over-dressed. Every other 
week he sent a packet of songs to Johnson for his Museum, which had now reached 
the third volume. He interested himself in local politics, and scribbled election- 
eering ballads. One evening, when the past — heavy with unshed tears — lay near 
his heart, he composed the strain. To Mary in Ileaoen ; and in the course of one 
summer day, in a perfect riot and whirlwind of ecstasy, every faculty and power in 
full blossom, he dashed off Tain CShanter, — immortal, unapproachable ! If Ellis- 
land had but paid. Burns might have been happy as farmer and poet, — or as 
Exciseman, farmer, and poet, — for the characters were by no means incompatible. 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



As but for his Excise salary Burns must liave succuml)e(l under farming difficul- 
ties, he was now anxious to be quit of EUisland, and to couline himself entirely to 
his ofticial duties; and it so happened that Mr. Miller was willing to release him of 
the portion of the lease which was yet to run, preparatory to a final sale of that 
Dart of the lands. The EUisland crops were sold, and the sale was made the 
occasion of a drunken orgie. On the ist September, Burns writes to Mr. Thomas 
Sloan : 

" I sold my crop on this day se'en-night, and sold it very well. A guinea an 
acre on an average above value. But sucli a scene of tlrunkenness was hardly 
ever seen in tliis country. After the roup was over about thirvy people engaged in 
a battle, every man for his own hand, and fought it out for tiiree hours. Nor was 
the scene much better in the house. No fighting indeed, but the folks lying drunk 
on the floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending on them 
that they could not stand. Ycu will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as I 
was no farther over than you used to see me." 

In November EUisland became the property of Mr. Morine, and Burns innne- 
diately sold his farm stock and implements, — relinquishing for ever the plough-tail, 
at which he so often boasted liiat he had an iu'lependence, • — ■ and removed w ith his 
wife and children to a small house in the Wee Vennel of Dumfries. On his 
removal he was appointed to an Excise division, which improved liis salary. His 
income was now /^ 70 per annum. 

It is at Dumfries that Burns's story first becomes really tragical. He had 
divorced himself from country scenery and the on-goings of rural life, which, up till 
now, formed an appro]iriate background for our ideas of him. Instead of the 
knowes and meadows of Mossgie) and EUisland, with their lovely sunrises and 
twilights, we have to connect him with the streets, the gossip, and the dissipation of 
a third-rate Scottish town. He was no longer a farmer — he was a simple ganger, 
hojiing to obtain a supervisorship. Proud as was his spirit, he was dependent on 
great friends ; and He condescended, on various occasions, to write epistles in prose 
and verse which fawned on a patron's hand. Natural inspiration and picturesque- 
ness were taken out of his life. lie turned down no more daisies, the hoinetl moon 
hung no longer in the window-pane of the ale-house in which he drank ; the com- 
position of theatrical prologues engaged his attention rather than the composition 
of poems of rustic life. lie was never rich, but in Dumfries his poverty for the 
first time wears an aspect of painfulness. For the first time we hear of monetary 
difficulties, of obligations which he cannot conveniently meet, of debt. It was here, 
too, that certain weaknesses, which had lately grown upon him, attracted public 
notice. In Dumfries, as in Edinburgh at that time, there was a good deal of tavein- 
lifc, and much hard drinking at dinner and supper parties, and the like. Burns 
was famous, — he had lived in dukes' houses, he corresponded with celebrated men, 
he could talk brilliantly, he had wit for every call as other men had spare silver, 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



he could repeat his last poem or epigram, — and as a consequence his society was 
in great request. It was something to have dined or supped in the company of 
Burns, — if one was not the rose, it was at least something to have been near the 
rose, — and his host was proud of him, as he was proud of his haunch of venison, 
his claret, his silver cpergne. Burns's good things circulated with the wine; his 
wit gave a new relish to the fruit, and kindled an unwonted splendor in the brains 
of his listeners. Then strangers, passing through Dumfries, were naturally anxious 
to see the poet whose reputation had travelled so far. They invited him to the 
inns in which they were living, Burns consented, frequently the revel was loud and 
late, and when he rose, — after the sun sometimes, — he paid his share of the 
lawing with "a slice of his constitution." In his younger days he had been sub- 
jected to public rebuke by the Rev. Mr. Auld; but since his marriage he seems lo 
have bejw irreproachable in the matter of conjugal fidelity. During, however, an 
unfortunate absence of his wife in Ayrshire he contracted a discreditable liaison, 
which resulted in the biith of a daughter. Mrs. Burns seems neither to have 
reproached nor complained; she adopted the child, and brought it up in the same 
cradle with her own infant. If fur his fault he had i)cen subjected to domestic 
annoyance, he might have taken refuge in pride, and haughtily repelled reproaches; 
but his wife's forgiveness allowed him to brood — and with what bitterness we can 
guess — over his misconduct. Doubtless the evil in his career in Dumfries has 
i)een exaggerated. Burns's position was full of peril, — -he was subjected to tempta- 
tions which did not come in the way of ordinary men; and if he drank hard, it was 
n an age when hard drinking was fashionable. If he siimed in this respect, he 
sinned in company with English priuie ministers, Scotch Lords of .Session, grave 
dignitaries of the Church in both countries, and with thousands of ordinary block- 
heads who went to their graves in the odor of sanctity, and whose ejiitaphs are a 
catalogue of all the virtues. Burns was a man set ajiart; he was observed, he was 
talked about; and if he erred, it was like erring in the market-place. In any 
other inhaliitant of Dumfries, misdemeanors such as Burns's would hardly have 
provoked remark; what would have been unnoticed on tlie hodden gr.av of the 
farmer became a stain on the singing robe of the poet. That Burns should have 
led an unworthy life is to be deplored, but the truth •'- — and herein lies explana- 
tion, palliation perhaps — that in Dumfries he was somewhat a-weary of the sun. 
Xot seldom he was desperate and at bay. He was neither in harmony with him- 
self nor with the world. Me had enjoyed one burst of brilliant success, and in the 
light of that success his life before and after looked darker than it actually was. 
The hope deferred of a supervisorship made his heart sick. He had succeeded 
as a poet, but in everything else failure had dogged his steps; and out of that 
poetical success no permanent benefit had resulted, or seemed now in his need 
likely to result. In the east were the colors of the dawn, hut the sun would not 
arise. His letters at this time breathe an almost uniform mood of exasperation and 



BIOCRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



misery, and it is hard for a miserable man to be a good one. He is tempted to 
make strange alliances, and to pay a high price for forgetfulness. And over 
Burns's head at this time was suspended one other black cloud, which, although 
it only burst in part, made tlie remainder of his life darker with its shadow. 

Chief amongst Burns's friends during the eai ly portion of his residence at Dum- 
fries were Mr. and Mrs. Riddel. They were in good circumstances, possessing a 
small estate in the neighborhood of the town, and Burns was frequently their guest. 
Mrs. Riddel was young and pretty, and distinguished by literary taste and accom- 
plishment. She wrote verses which Burns praised, and he introduced her to his 
friend Smellie, the naturalist, who was enchanted with her vivacity and talent. 
But this pleasant relationship was destined to be interrupted. On the occasion of 
a dinner-party at Woodley Park, the residence of Mr. Riddel, when wine flowed 
much too freely, Burns — in some not quite explained manner — grievously 
offended his hostess. On the following morning he apol<igized in prose and verse, 
threw the onus of his rudeness on Mr. Riddel's wine, — which was the next thing 
to blaming Mr. Riddel himself, — and in every way expressed regret for his con- 
duct, and abhorrence of himself. These apologies do not seem to have been 
accepted, and for a time the friends ceased to meet. Burns was hurt and angry, 
and he made the lady he was accustomed to address in adoring verses and high- 
flown epistles the subject of cruel and unmanly lampoons. The enstrangement was, 
of course, noised abroad, aiid the people were inclined to side \\ith the fashionable 
lady rather than with the Jacobinical exciseman. For a time at least, Dumfries 
regarded Burns with a lowering and suspicious eye, one reason of which may be 
found in his quarrel with the Riddels and its cause, and another in the political 
principles which he jirofessed to hold, and to which he gave imprudent expressii)n. 

His immediate ancestors had perilled something in the cause of the Stuarts, and 
Burns, in his early days, was wont to wear a sentimental Jacobilism, — for orna- 
ment's sake, like a ring on the finger, or a sprig of heather in the bonnet. This 
Jacobitism was fed by his sentiment and his poetry. It grew out of the House of 
Stuart, as flowers grow out of the walls of ruins. But while he held the past in 
reverence, and respected aristocracy as an outcome of that past, a something around 
wliich tradition and ballad could gather, there was always a fierce democratic im- 
pulse in his mind, which raged at times like the ocean tide against the Bulgers of 
Buchan. This democratic feeling, like his other feeling of Jacobitism, rested on no 
solid foundation. He had a strong feeling that genius and worth are always poor, 
that l)aseness and chicanery are always prosperous. He considered that the good 
things of this life were secured by the rascals more or less. The truth is, his Jacob- 
itism sprang from his imagination, his Radicalism from his discontent; the one the 
oflspring of the best portion of his nature, the other the offspring of the worst. 
Radicalism was originally born of hunger; and Burns, while denouncing the rulers 
of his country, was simply crj'ing out under his own proper sore. He passionately 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



carried particulars into generals. He was sick, and so was the whole body politic. 
He needed reform, so, of course, did the whole world, and it was more agreeable 
to begin with the world in the first instance. He was imprudent in the expression 
of his political opinions, and was continually doing himself injury thereby. He had 
written as we have seen, treasonable verses on the inn window at Stirling ; and 
although on a subsequent visit he dashed out the pane, he could not by that means 
destroy the copies which were in circulation. The writing of the verses referred 
to was imjirudent enough, but the expression of his Radicalism at Dumfries — 
which was a transient mood, not a fixed principle with him — was more imprudent 
still. In the one case he was a private individual, anxious to enter the Excise; in 
the other, he had entered the Excise, was actually a Government officer, and in 
receipt of a Government salary. Besides, too, the times were troublous : there was 
seditious feeling in the country, France had become a volcano in active eruption, 
and European business was carried on in its portentous light. It became known 
that Burns Iboked with favor on the revolutionary party across the Channel, that he 
read newspapers which were opposed to the Government, and, as a consequence, by 
the well-to-do inhabitants of Dumfries he was regarded with suspicion. This suspi- 
cion was, of course, wretched enough, but Burns need not have gone out of his way 
to incur it. He knew perfectly well that his Radicalism was based on no serious con- 
viction, that it grew out of personal discontent, and that the discontent was the re- 
sult of wounded pride, and the consciousness that he had not shaped his life aright. 
Besides all this, he seems to have lost self-command; he was constantly getting mto 
scrapes from which there could be no honorable extrication. He burned his fingers, 
and he did not dread the fire. To the Subscription Library in Dumfries he pre- 
sented, amongst other volumes, a copy of De Loline on the British Constitution, and 
inscribed on the back of the portrait of the author, " Mr. Burns presents this book 
to the Library, and begs they will take it as a creed of Briti-sh liberty — until they 
find a better. R. B. " And the next morning he came to the bedside of the gentle- 
man who had the volume in custody, imploring to see De Loline, as he feared he had 
written something in it that miglit bring him into trouble. We hear of him at a 
private dinner-party, when the health of Pitt was proposed, giving " The health of 
CJcorge Washington — a better man," and of his being sulky that his toast was not 
received. He had already sent a present of guns to the French Convention, with 
which our prospect of war was at this time becoming imminent ; and at a later period 
we find him quarrelling with an officer on the subject of another toast, and writing 
apologies to the effect, firstly, that when the offence was committed he was drunk; 
and secondly, that he could not fight a duel, because he had the welfare of others 
to care for. When the board of Excise ordered some inquiries to l)e made regard- 
ing his political conduct, he wrote Mr. Graham of Fintry, declaring that "To the 
British Constitution, on revolution principles, next after my God, I am most de- 
voutly attached." He was in a state of chronic exasperation at himself, at the rich 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



people of his acquaintance and of his immediate neigliborhood, and at the world 
generally; and his exasperation was continually blazing out in sarcasm and invec- 
tive. Curiously enough, too, when one thinks of it, during all this bitter time, he 
was writing songs for Mr. Thomson, who had opened a correspondence with him. 
He was busy with Ckloris and Pnillis, while thrones were shaking, and the son of 
Saint Louis knelt on the scaffold, and Marie Antoinette during her trial was beat- 
ing out with weary lingers a piano tune on the bench before her. Every other 
week up from Dumfries to Edinburgh came by the fly a packet of songs for the 
new pulilication. On one occasion came the stern war-ode, Scots 7o/ia hue wi' 
IV'alliue oUii, which Mr. Thomson thought susceptible of improvement. But 
Burns was inexorable; he liked his ode, and as it was it should remain. It has 
been said, that by the more respectable circles in Dmnfries Burns was regarded 
with suspicion, if not with positive dislike. Some evidence of this will be found 
in the anecdote related by Mr. Lockhart. " Mr. M'Culioch," we are informed by 
that biographer, " was seldom more grieved than when, riding into Dumfries one 
fine summer evening to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone on the 
shady side of the pi incipal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with 
successive groups of ladies and gentlemen, all drawn togetlier for the festivities of 
the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. The horseman 
dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him to cross the street, 
said, ' Nay, nay, my young friend, that's all over now ' ; and quoted, after a pause, 
some verses of Lady Grizel Baillie's pathetic ballad : 

' His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
His auld .ine looked better than mony ane's new; 
But now he let's wear ony gate it will hing, 
And casts himsel' dowie upon the corn-bing. 

' Oh, were we young as we ance hae been. 
We sud hae been galloping down on yon green, 
And linking it ower the lily-white lea — 
And werena my heart light I wad die.' 

Burns then turned the conversation, and took his young friend home with him till 
the time for the ball arrived." 

This — with the exception of the actual close — was the darkest period iu Burns's 
life. In a short lime the horizon cleared a little. The quarrel with Mrs. Riddel 
was healed, and in a short time books and poems were exchanged between them as 
of yore. lie appears also to have had again some hope of obtaining a supervisor- 
ship — the mirage that haunted his closing years. Meanwhile, political feeling 
had become loss bitter; and, in 1 795, he exhibited his friendliness to the institutions 
of the country by entering himself one of the corps of volunteers whicK was raised 
in Dumfries, and bv composing the spirited patriotic song. Does h.iu^kty Gaul in- 
vasion threat? This song became at once popidar; and it showed the nation that 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



the heart of the writer was sound at the core, that he hated anarchy and tyranny 
ahke, and wished to steer a prudent middle course. Better days were dawning; 
but by this time the hardships of his youth, his constant anxieties, his hoping 
against hope, and his continual passionate stress and tumult of soul, began to tell 
on a frame that was originally powerful. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, in the begin- 
ning of the year, we have, under his own hand, the first warning of failing strength. 
"What a transient business is life," he writes. "Very lately I was a boy; but 
t'other day I was a young man; and I already begiu to feel the rigid fibre and 
Stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame." In spite of breaking health, 
he attended his Excise duties, and the packets of songs were sent regularly from 
Dumfries to Edinburgh. In the songs there was no symptom of ache or pain; in 
these his natural vigor was in no wise abated. The dew still hung, diamond-like, 
upon the thorn. Love was still lord of all. On one occasion he went to a party 
at the Globe Tavern, where he waited late, and on his way home, heavy with liquor, 
he fell asleep in the open air. The result, in his weakened state of body, was dis- 
astrous. He was attacked by rheumatic fever, his appetite began to fail, his black 
eyes lost their lustre, his voice became tremulous and hollow. His friends hoped 
that, if he could endure the cold spring months, the summer warmth would revive 
him; but summer came, and brought no recovery. He was now laid aside from 
his official work. During his illness he was attended by Miss Jessie Lewars, a sister 
of his friend Lewars, — " a fellow of uncommon merit; indeed, by far the cleverest 
fellow I have met in this part of the world," — and her kindness the dying poet 
repaid by the only thing he was rich enough to give — a song of immortal sweet- 
ness. His letters at this time are full of his disease, his gloomy prospects, his 
straitened circumstances. In July he went to Brow, a sea-bathing village on 
the Sohvay, where Mrs. Riddel was then residing, in weak health, and there the 
friends — for all past bitternesses M'eie now forgotten — had an interview. " Well, 
Madam, have you any commands for the other world?" was Burns's greeting. 
He talked of his approaching decease calmly, like one who had grown so familiar 
with the idea that it had lost all its terror. His residence on the Solway was not 
productive of benefit: he was beyond all aid from sunshine and the saline breeze. 
On the 7th July, he wrote Mr. Cunningham, urging him to use his influence with 
the Commissioners of Excise to grant him his full salary. " If they do not grant it 
me," he concludes, " I must lay my account with an exit truly en po'ete ; if I die 
not of disease, I must perish with hunger." On the loth July, he wrote his brother 
Gilbert; and Mrs Dunlop, who had become unaccountably silent, two days after. 
On this same 12th July, he addressed the fallowing letter to his cousin : — 

" My dear Cousin, — When you offered me money assistance, little did I think 
I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a consider- 
able bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



seldom or never describes these things for their own sake; they are always kept 
in subordination to the central human interest. Burns cared little for the natural 
picturesque in itself; the moral picturesque touched him more nearly. An 
old soldier in tattered scarlet interested him more than an ol 1 ruin; he preferred 
a gnarled character to a gnarled tree. The ridges of Arran haunt Ayrshire, — 
Lurus must daily have seen them from his door at Mossgiel, — and yet, to this 
most striking object in his range of vision, there is not a single allusion in his 
letters and poems. If Wordsworth had been placed in the same environment, 
how he would have made his suns rise or set on Arran ! After all, it is usually 
the town-poets — men like Hunt and Keats — • who go philandering after nature, 
who are enraptured by the graceful curvature of ferns and the colors of mosses 
and lichens. Burns had an exquisite delight in nature, especially in her more 
sombre and gloomy aspects; but he took a deeper interest in man, and, as a con- 
sequence, the chief interest of his poems is of a moral kind. We value them not 
so much for their color, their harmony, their curious felicities of expression, as 
for the gleams of sagacity, the insight into character, the strong homely sense, 
and those wonderful short sentences scattered everywhere. Of those short lines 
and sentences, now sly, now caustic, now broadly humorous, now purely didactic, 
no writings, if Shakespeare's be excepted, have a greater abundance. They cir- 
culate everywhere like current coin ; they have passed like iron into the blood of 
our common speech. Of Burns's conversation in Edinburgh ^\ e h.ave little re- 
corded that is specially characteristic — and for this we Vjlame not Burns, but his 
reporters. The best thing — indeed, the only true and deep thing — is the simple 
5tntement which struck Dugald Stewart so much when the pair were standing on 
the Braid hills, looking out on the fair morning world. Beneath were cottages, 
early sparrows doubtless noisy in the thatch, pillars of blue smoke, telling of 
preparation of breakfast for laborers afield, curling in the calm air. Burns took 
in the whole landscape, and declared that, in his view, the worthiest object it con- 
tained was the cluster of smoking cots, knowing as he did, what worth, what 
affection, what pious contentment and happiness, nestled within them. This really 
is a gleam into the man's inmost soul. Poetry, to him, lay in the cottage rather 
than in the tree that overshadowed it, or the stream that sparkled past it. In one 
of his poems he lays down the doctrine in express terms : — 

" To mak a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wife. 
That's the true pathos and subUme 
Of human life." 

The poetry of a man so intensely humane is certain to come home to the bosoms 
and businesses of all other men — powerfully to the happy, more powerfully to the 
miserable, who are ever in the majority. To the wretched, out of the Bible, there 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



is no such solace as the poetry of Burns. His genius comes to their hovels, their 
jxior bread wetted with tears, as Howard came to the strong places of pestilence — 
inadiating, consoling; like the hearing of soft tones, like the touches of tender 
hands. And then his large, friendliness flows out in every direction. The " mouse " 
is his " poor earth-born companion and fellow-mortal." He pities the " silly 
sheep," and the " chittering wing !' of the bird perched on the frozen spray. The 
farmer speaks to his old mare " Maggie " as he would to a comrade, who had 
shared with him his struggles, toils, and triumphs. The poetry of Burns flows 
into a wintry world, like a tepid gulf-stream — mitigating harsh climates, breathing 
genial days, carrying with it spring-time and the cuckoo's note. 

Of his humor again — which is merely his love laughing and playing antics in 
very extravagance of its joy — what can be said, except that it is the freshest, most 
original, most delightful in the world? What a riot of fun in Tarn O' Shaiiter ; 
what strange co-mixture of mirth and awfulness in Death and Dr. Hornbook ; what 
extravaganza in the Address to a Haggis ! To Barns's eye the world was dark' 
enough, usually; but, on the gala days and carnivals of his spirit, Mirth rules the 
hour, ragged Poverty dances all the lighter for his empty pockets. Death himself 
grins as he is poked in the lean ribs. And if, as is said, from the sweetest wine 
you can extract the sourest vinegar, one can fancy into what deadly satire this love 
will conceal itself, when it becomes hate. Burns hates his foe — be it man or 
doctrine — as intensly as he loves his mistress. Holy Willie'' s Prayer is a satirical 
crucilixion — slow, lingering, inexorable. He hated Hypocrisy, he tore its holy 
robe, and for the outrage Hypocrisy did not forgive him while he lived, nor has 
it yet learned to forgive him. 

If we applaud the Roman Emperor who found Rome brick and left it marble, 
what shall we say of the man who found the songs of his country indelicate and 
left them pure — who made wholesome the air which the spirit and the affections 
Dreathe? And Burns did this. H-e drove immodesty from love, and coarseness 
from humor. And not only did he purify existing Scottish Song; he added to it 
all that it has of best and rarest. Since his day, no countryman of his, whatevet 
may be his mood, need be visited by a sense of solitariness, or ache with a pent-up 
feeling. If he is glad, he will find a song as merry as himself; if sad, he will find 
one that will sigh with his own woe. In Burns's Songs, love finds an exquisite 
companionship; independence a backer and second; conviviality a roaring table, 
and the best fellows round it; patriotism a deeper love of country, and a gayer 
scorn of death than even its own. And in so adding to, and purifying Scottish 
Song, Burns has conferred the greatest benefit on his countrymen that it is in the 
power of a poet to confer. 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 



BURNS'S LIFE AND WORKS. 



ALLOWAY, 

1759- 

January 25. — Robert Burns born at AUoway, parish of Ayr, in a clay-built 
cottage, the work of his father's own hands. His father, William Burnes (so the 
family name was always written until changed by the poet), was a native of Kin- 
cardineshire, born November II, 1 721. His mother, Agnes Brown, born March 
17, 1732, was daughter of a farmer in Carrick, Ayrshiie. The poet's parents were 
married December 15, 1757- William Burnes was then a gardener and farm- 
overseer. 

1765 — (^TAT. Six). 

Sent to a school at Alloway Mill, kept by one Campbell, who was succeeded in 
May by John Murdoch, a young teacher of uncommon merit, engaged by 
William Burnes and four of his neighbors, who boarded him alternately at their 
houses, and guaranteed him a small salary. Two advantages were thus possessed 
by the poet — an excellent father and an excellent teacher. 

MOUNT OLIPHANT. 

1766 — (Seven). 

William Burnes removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant, two miles distant. 
His sons still attended Alloway school. The books used were a spellirig-book, the 
New Testavie7it, the Bible, Masoti's Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's 
English Grammar. 

1768 — (Nine). 

Murdoch gave up Alloway school. Visiting the Burnes family before his 
departure, he took with him, as a present, the play of Titus Andronicus. He 
read part of the play aloud, but the horrors of the scene shocked and distressed 



xiii CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



the children, and Robert threatened to burn the book if it was left. Instead of 
it Murdoch "ave them a comedy, the School for Love (translated from the French) 
and an En;^lish Grammar. He had previously lent Robert a Life of Ilannilhtl. 
"The earliest composition that I recollect taking any pleasure in," says the poet, 
"was the Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's beginning, How are Thy 
servants hlcit, O Lord! I particularly remember one half-stanza, which was 

music to my boyish ear, — 

• For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave ! ' " 

He had found these in Mason's Collection. The latent seeds of poetry were 
further cullivateil in his mind by an old woman living in the family, Detty David- 
son, who had a great store of tales, songs, ghost-stories, and legendary lore. 

1770 — (Elkven). 

By the time he was ten or eleven years of age he was an excellent English 
scholar, " a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles." After the departure of 
Murdoch, William Burnes was- the only instructor of his sons and other children. 
He taught them arithmetic, and procured for their use Salmoit's Geographical 
Grammar, Derham''s Physics and Astro- Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God in 
the Creation. These gave the boys some idea of Geography, Astronomy, and Nat- 
ural History. He had also Stackhonse's History %f the Bible, Taylor''s Scripture 
Doctrine of Original Sin, a volume of English History (reigns of James T. and 
Charles I.). The blacksmith lent the common metrical Life of .Sir William 
Wallace (which was read with Scottish fervor and enthusiasm), and a maternal 
imcle supplied a Collection of LMters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, which 
inspired Robert with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing. 

1772 — (Thirteen). 

To improve their penmanship, William Burnes sent his sons, week about, dur- 
ing the summer quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, two or three miles 
distant. This year Murdoch was appointed teacher of English in Ayr school, and 
he renewed his acquaintance with the Burnes family, sending them Pope's Works 
and " some other poetry." 

1773 — (Fourteen). 

Robert boarded three weeks with Murdoch at Ayr in order to revisCLhis Eng- 
lish Grammar. He acquired also a smattering of French, and on returning home 
he took with him a Erench Dictionary and Trench Grammar, and a copy of 
Teltmaque. He attempted Latin, but soon abandoned it. 



? 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xliii 

1774 — (Fifteen). 

Ilis knowledge of French intioduced him to some respectable families in Ayr 
(Dr. Malcolm's and others). A lady lent him the Spectator, Pope's Homer, and 
several other boolis. In this year began with him love and poetry. Mis partner 
in the harvest-lield was a " bewitching creature" a year younger than himself, 
Nelly Kilpatrick, daughter of the blacksmith, who sang sweetly, and on her he 
afterwards wrote his lirst song and fu^st effort at rhyme, O, once I loved a bonnie 
tass. 

1775 — (Sixteen). 

About this time Robert was the principal laborer on the farm. From the un- 
productiveness of the soil, the loss of cattle, and other causes, William Burnes 
had got into pecuniary difficulties, and the threatening letters of the factor (the 
landlord being dead) used to set the distressed family all in tears. The character 
of the factor is drawn in the Ta/e of Twa Dogs. The hard labor, poor living, 
and sorrow of this period formed the chief cause of the poet's subsequent fits of 
melancholy, frequent headaches, and palpitation of the heart. 

1776 — (Seventeen). 
Spent his seventeenth summer (so in poet's MS. British Museum; Dr. Cunie 
altered the date to niiieleentJi) on a smuggling coast in Ayrshire, at Kirkoswald, 
on purpose to learn mensuration, surveying, etc. He made good progress, though 
mi.xing somewhat in the dissipation of the place, which had then a flourishing con- 
traband trade. Met the second of his poetical heroines, Peggy Thomson, on wliom 
he afterwards wrote his fine song, Notu westlin winds and slaughf ring gtms. 
The charms of this maiden " overset his trigonometry and set him off at a tangent 
from the sphere of his studies." On his return from Kirkoswald (" in my seven- 
teenth year," he writes) he attended a dancing school to " give his manners a 
brush." His father had an antipathy to these meetings, and his going " in abso- 
lute defiance of his father's command" («V in orig.) was an "instance of rebel- 
lion " which he conceived brought on him the paternal resentment and even dis- 
like. Gilbert Burns dissents altogether from this conclusion : the poet's extreme 
sensibility and regret for his one act of disobedience led him unconsciously to 
ex.iggerate the circumstances of the case. At Kirkoswald he had enlarged his 
reading by the addition of Thoinson^s and Shenstone's Works, and among the 
other books to which he had access at this period, besides those mentioned aliove, 
were some plays of Shakespeare, .■ll'.an Ramsay^s Works, Hervc/s Meditations, 
and a Select Collection of English Songs ("The Lark," 2 vols.). This last work 
was, he says, liis v.ide meciim; he pored over it driving his cart or walking to 
labor, and carefully noted the true tender or sublime from affectation and fustian. 
He composed this year two stanzas, I dreani' d I lay-where flowers were springing. 



xliv CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 

LOCHLEA. 

1777 — (Eighteen). 

William Eurnes and family remove to a larger farm at Lochlea, parish of Tar- 
bolton. Take possession at Whitsunday. Affairs for a time look brighter, and 
all work diligently. Robert and Gilbert have £ 7 per annmn each as wages from 
their father, and they also take land from him for the purpose of raising flax on 
their own account. " Though, when young, the poet was bashful and awkward 
in his intercourse with women, as he approached manhood his attachment to tlieir 
society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some fair en- 
slaver." ( Gilbert Burns.) He was in the secret, he says, of half the loves of the 
parish of Tarbolton. 

1778 — (Nineteen). 

" I was," he says, " about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched the outlines 
of a tragedy." The whole had escaped his memory, except a fragment of twenty 
lines : All devil as I am, etc. 

1780 — (Twenty-one). 

The " Bachelors' Club," established at Tarbolton by Robert and Gilbert Burns, 
and five other young men. Meetings were held once a month, and questions 
debated. The sura expended by each member was not to exceed threepence. 

1781 — (T\vent\'-t\vo) . 

David Sillar admitted a member of the Bachelors' Club. He describes Bums : 
" I recollect hearing his neighbors observe he had a great deal to say for himself, 
and that they suspected his principles (his religious principles). He wore the 
only tied hair in the parish, and in the church his plaid, which was of a particu- 
lar color, I think fiUemot, he wrapped in a particular manner round his shoulders. 
Between sermons we often took a walk in the fields ; in these walks I have fre- 
quently been struck by his facility in addressing the fair sex, and it was generally 
a death-blow to our conversation, however agreeable, to meet a female acquain- 
tance. Some book he always carried and read when not otherwise employed. 
It was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, in 
the time of a sowen supper, he was so intent on reading, — I think Tristram 
Shandy, — that his spoon falling out of his hand made him exclaim in a tone 
scarcely imitable, ' Alas, poor Yorick ! ' " The poet had now added to his collec- 
tion of books Mackenzie's Man of Feeling (which he said he prized next _to the 
Bible) and Man of the World, Sterne's Works, and Macpherson's Ossian. He 
would appear also to have had the poetical works of Young. Among the fair 
ones whose society he courted was a superior young woman, bearing the unpoeti- 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xlv 



cal name of Ellison Begbie. She was the daughter of a small farmer at Galston, 
but was servant with a family on the banks of the Cessnock. On her he wrote a 
"song of similes," beginning On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, and the earli- 
est of his printed correspondence is addressed to Ellison. His letters are grave, 
sensible epistles, written with remarkable purity and correctness of language. At 
this time poesy was, he says, " a darling walk for his mind." The oldest of his 
printed pieces were IVinier, a Dirge, the Death of Poor Mailie, yohn Barley- 
corn, and the three songs // was upon a Lammas night, A^ozu westlin winds and 
slaughf ring guns, and Behind yon hills where Stinchar Jloxvs. We may add to 
these O Tibbie I hae seen the day and My father was a farmer. Ilis exquisite 
lyric, Mary, at thy window be, was also, he says, one of his juvenile works. 

1782 — (Twenty -three). 

Ellison Begbie refuses his hand. She was about to leave her situation, and he 
expected himself to "remove a little further ofT." He went to the town of Irvine. 
" My twenty-third year," he says, " was to me an important era. Partly through 
whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a 
flax-dresser in a neighboring town to learn his trade, and carry on the business of 
manufacturing and retailing flax. This turned out a sadly unlucky affair. My 
partner was a scoundrel of the first water, who made money by the mystery of 
thie^•ing, and to finish the whole, while we were giving a welcoming carousal to 
the New Year, our shop, by the drunken carelessness of my partner's wife, took 
fire, and was burned to ashes; and left me, like a true poet, not worth a six- 
pence." * In Irvine his reading was only increased, he says, by two volumes of 
Pamela, and one of Ferdinand, Count Fathom, \\hich gave him some idea of 
novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, he had given up, 
but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, he " strung anew his lyre with emu- 
lating vigor." He also formed a friendship for a young fellow, " a very noble 
character," Richard Brown, and with others of a freer manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, " the consequence of which was," he says, " that 
soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the Poefs Welcome " (to his illegitimate 
child). But this was not till the summer of 1784. Before leaving Lochlea he 
became a Freemason. 

* Frora orig. in Brit. Museum. Burns wrote an interesting and affecting letter to his father, 
from Irvine. Dr. Ciirrie dates it 17S1, which we think is an error. The poet's statement is cor- 
roborated by liis brother's narrative, and the stone chimney of the room occupied by the poet is 
inscribed, evidently by his own hand, " R. B. 17S2." He consoled himselv for his loss after this 

fashion: — ,, ^^ , ■ , ^ ut 

O, why the deuce should 1 repine. 

And be an ill forcboder? 

I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine, 

I'll go and be a sodger." 



xlvi CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



MOSSGIEL. 
1784 — (Twenty-five). 
February 13. — William Burnes died at Lochlea in his sixty-fourth year, his 
affairs in utter ruin. His sons and two grown-up daughters ranked as creditors 
of their father for arrears of wages, and raised a little money to stock another 
farm. This new farm was that of Mossgiel, parish of Mauchline, which had been 
sub-let to them by Gavin Hamilton, writer (or attorney) in Mauchline. They 
entered on the farm in March : " Come, go to, I will be wise," resolved the poet, 
but bad seed and a late harvest deprived them of half their expected crop. Poelry 
was henceforth to be the only successful vocation of Robert Burns. To this year 
may be assigned the Epistle to John Rankine (a strain of rich humor. Out indeli- 
cate), and some minor pieces. In April or May he commenced his acquaintance 
with " Bonnie Jean " — Jean Armour — an event which colored all his future life, 
imparting to it its brightest lights and its darkest shadows. 

1785 — (Twenty-six). 

In January the Epistle to Davie completed: Death and Doctor ITornbook writ- 
ten about February. Epistles to J. Lapraik^ April I, 21, and September 13. 
Epistle to W. Sim/>son in May. The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tuhie : this satire 
was the first of his poetic offspring that saw the light (excepting some of his 
songs), and it was received by a certain descripticn of the clergy, as well as laity, 
witli a " roar of applause." Burns had now taken his side with the "New Light," 
or rationalistic section of the church, then in violent antagonism to the " Auld 
Light," or evangelistic party, which comprised the great bulk of the lower and 
middling classes. To this year belong The Jolly Beggars, Halloween, The Cot- 
ter's Saturday Alght, Man was made to iMonrn, Address to the Deil, To a Mouse, 
A Winter Night, Holy Willie'' s Prayer, and The Holy Fair (early MS. in British 
Museum), Epistle to James Smith, etc. 

1786 — (Twenty-seven). 

In rapid succession were produced Scotch Drink, The Attthor's Earnest Cry 
and Prayer, llie Twa Dogs, The Ordination, Address to the Unco Guid, To a 
Mountain Daisy, Epistle to a i'oung Friend, A Bard's Epitaph, The La;nent, 
Despondency, etc. Such a body of original poetry, written within about twelve 
months, — poetry so natural, forcible, and picturesque, so quaint, sarcastic, humor- 
ous, and tender, — had unquestionably not appeared since Shakespeare. Misfor- 
tunes, however, were gathering round the poet. The farm had proved a failure, 
and the connection with Jean Armour brought grief and shame. He gave her a 
written acknowledgment of marriage, but at the urgent entreaty of her father she 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xlvii 

consented that tlii.; document should be destroyed. The poet was frantic with 
distress and iiulignatioti. He resolved on quitting the country, engaged to go out 
to Jamaica as book-keeper on an estate, and, to raise money for his passage, 
arranged to publish his poems. Subscription papers were issued in April. In 
the meantime, in bitter resentment of the perfidy, as he esteemed it, of the un- 
fortunate Jean Armour, lie renewed his intimacy with a former love, Mary Camp- 
bell, or " Highland Mary," who had been a servant in the family of Gavin Ham- 
ilton, and was now dairy-maid at Coilslield. He proposed marriage to Mary 
Campbell, was accepted, and Mary left her service and went to her parents in 
Argyleshire, preliminary to her union with the poet. They parted on the banks 
of the Ayr, on Sunilay, May 14, exchanging Bibles and vowing eternal fidelity. 
No more is heard of Mary until after her death, which took place in October of 
this year. The poems were published in August, an edition of 600 copies, and 
were received with enthusiastic applause. The poet cleared about £10 by the 
volume, took a passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde (nothing 
is said of Mary accompanying him), and was preparing to embark, when a letter 
frt)m Dr. Blacklock, offering encouragement for a second edition, roused his poetic 
ambition, and led him to try his fortune in Edinburgh. Before starting he made 
the acquaintance of Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, the most valued and one of the 
most accomplished of his correspondents. 

EDINBURGH. 

November 28, 1 786. — Burns reaches the Scottish capital, and instantly be- 
comes the lion of the season. He is courted and caressed by the witty, the fash- 
ionable, and the learned — by Dugald Stewart, Harry Erskine, Hugh Blair, Adam 
Ferguson, Dr. Robertson, Lord Monboddo, Dr. Gregory, Eraser Tytler, Lord 
Clencairn, Lord Eglinton, Patrick Miller (the ingenious laird of Dalswinton), the 
fascinating Jane, Duchess of Gordon, Miss Burnet, etc. Henry Mackenzie, the 
" Man of Feeling," writes a critique on the poems in the Lounger, — the members 
of the Caledonian Hunt subscriiie for a hundred copies of the new edition, — and 
the poet is in a fair way, as he says, of becoming as eminent as Thomas \ Kempis 
or John Bunyan. 

1787 — (Twenty-eight). 

Burns applies for and obtains permission to erect a tombstone in Canongate 
Churchyard over the remains of Fergusson the poet. In April appears the second 
edition of the Poems, consisting of 3,000 copies, with a list of subscribers pre- 
fixed, and a portrait of the poet. In this edition appeared Death and Dr. Horn- 
hook, the Ordination, and Address to the Unco Gtiid, which were excluded from 
the first edition, and several new pieces, the best of which are the Brigs of Ayr 
and Tavi Samson's Elegy. On the 5th of May the poet sets off on a tour with a 



xlviii CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 

young friend, Robert Ainslie, in order to visit the most interesting scenes in the 
south of Scotland. Crossing the Tweed over Coldstream bridge, Burns knelt 
down on the English side and poured forth, uncovered, and with strong emotion, 
the prayer for Scotland contained in the two last stanzas of the CotUr^s Saturday 
Night. June 4, he was made an honorary burgess of the town of Dumfries, after 
which he proceeded to Ayrshire, and arrived at Mauchline on the 9th of June. 
" It will easily be conceived," says Dr. Currie, " with what pleasure and pride he 
was received by his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had left them poor and 
comparatively friendless; he returned to them high in public estimation, and easy 
in his circumstances." At this time the poet renewed his intimacy with Jean 
Armour. Towards the end of the month he made a short Jlighland tour, in 
which he visited Loch Lomond and Dumlmrton, and returning to Mauchline, we 
find him (July 25) presiding as Depute Grand Master of the Taibolton Mason 
Lodge, and admitting Professor Dugald Stewart, Mr. Alexander of Ballochmyle, 
and others, as honorary members of the Lodge. On the 25th of August the 
poet set off from Edinburgh on a northern tour with William Nicol of the High 
School. They visited Bannockburn, spent two days at Blair with the Duke of 
Athole and family, proceeded as far as Inverness, then by way of Elgin, Focha- 
bers (dining with the Duke and Duchess of Gordon), on to Aberdeen, Stone- 
haven, and Montrose, where he met his relatives the Burneses. Arrived at Edin- 
burgh on the 1 6th of September. In December made the acquaintance of Clar- 
inda, or Mrs. M'Lehose, with whom he kept up a passionate correspondence for 
about three months. Overset by a drunken coachman, and sent home with a 
severely bruised knee, which confined him for several weeks. Mr. A. Wood, 
surgeon " lang sandy Wood," applies to Mr. Graham of Fintry, Commissioner of 
Excise, and gets Burns's name enrolled among the number of expectant Excise 
officers. During all this winter the poet zealously assists Mr. James Johnson in 
his publication, the Scots Musical Museum. 

1788 — (Twenty-nine). 

Left Edinburgh for Dumfries to inspect Mr. Miller's lands at Dalswinton. 
Stopped by the way at Mossgiel, February 23. Poor Jean Armour, who had 
again loved not wisely, but too well, was living apart, separated from her parents, 
and supported by Burns. Fie visited her the day before his departure for Dum- 
fries (apparently February 24), and it is painful to find him writing thus to 
Clarinda : " I, this morning as I came home, called for a certain woman. I am 
disgusted with her. I cannot endure her. T, while my heart smote me for the 
profanity, tried to compare her with my Clarinda; 'twas setting the- expiring 
glimmer of a farthing taper beside the cloudless glory of the meridian sun. 
Here was tasteless insipidity, vulgarity of soul, and mercenary fawning; there, 
polished good sense. Heaven-born genius, and the most generous, the most deli- 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xlix 



cate, the most tender passion. I have done with her, and she with me." ' In 
less than two months they were married ! In this, as in the Highland Mary 
episode, Burns's mobility, or " excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions,"* 
seems something marvellous, and more akin to the French than the Scotch char- 
acter. Returned to Edinburgh in March, and on the 13th took a lease of the 
farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith. On the 19th settled with Creech, the 
jirofits from the Edinburgh edition and copyright being about ^500, of which 
the poet g.ive ;^i8o to his brother Gilbert, as a loan, to enable him to continue 
(with the family) at Mossgiel. In the latter end of April Burns was privately 
married to Jean Armour, and shortly afterwards wrote on her his two charming 
songs Of a' the airts the wind can blaw and O, were I on Parnassus kill ! 

ELLISLAND. 

In June the poet went to reside on his farm, his wife remaining at Mauchline 
until a new house should be built at Ellisland. Formed the acquaintance of 
Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, a gentleman of literary and antiquarian tastes, who 
resided at Friars Carse, within a mile of Ellisland. On 28th June wrote 
Verses in Friars Carse Hermitage. August 5, the poet at Mauchline made 
public acknowledgment of his marriage before the Kirk Session, at the same 
time giving " a guinea note for behoof of the poor." In December conducted 
Mrs. Burns to the banks of the Nith. I hae a wife 0' my ain I 

1789 — (Thirty). 

Visited Edinburgh in February, and received about £ 50 more of copyright 
money from Creech. August 18, son born to the poet, named Francis Wallace. 
About the same lime received appointment to the Excise. October 16, the great 
bacchanalian contest for the Whistle took place at Friars Carse in presence of the 
poet. On the 20th of October (as calculated, and indeed proved by Mr. Cham- 
bers) the sublime and affecting lyric, To Mary in Heaven, was composed. Met 
Grose Jihe antiquary at Friars Carse, and afterwards wrote the humorous poem 
On Captain Grose'' s Peregrinations. In December was written the election 
ballad The Five Carlines. 

1790 — (Thirty-one). 

January 11. — Writes to Gilbert that his farm is a ruinous affair. On the 14th, 
addressing his friend Mr. Dunbar, W.S., relative to his Excise appointment, he 
says: " I found it a very convenient business to have ^^50 per annum; nor have 

* From the original, published in Banffshire yournal. 

' So defined by Byron, who was himself a victim to this " unhappy attribute." See " Don Juan," 
canto xvi. 97. 



1 CHRONOLOCrCAL TABLE. 

1 yet felt any nf those mortifying circumstances in it 1 was led to fear." 'liie 
duties were liaril; he had to ride at least 200 miles every week, but he still con- 
tributed largely to the Scots Musical Aluseum, wrote the elegy On Captain 
Jlliitthcio Ileiuierson (one of the most exquisite of the poet's productions), and iu 
autumn produced Tain O'Shanter, by universal assent the crowning glory and 
masterpiece of its author. 

179I — (TlllRTY-TWO). 

In February wrote Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, and L.ament for jfarnes 
Earl of Glencairn. In Marcli laad his right arm broken by the fall of his horse, 
and was for some weeks disabled from writing. In this month also occurred an 
event which probably caused deeper paio than the broken arm. First, as Mr. 
Chambers says, "we have a poor girl lost to the reputable world; " (this M-as 
" Anna with the gowden locks," niece to the hostess of the Globe Tavern ; ) 
"next we have Burns seeking an asylum for a helpless infant at his brother's; 
then a magnanimous wife interposing with the almost romantically generous 
offer to become herself its nurse and guardian." ' April 9, a third son born to 
the poet, and named William Nicol. At the close of the mon'h the poet sold his 
cmp at EUisland, " and sold it well." Declined to attend the crowning of Thom- 
son's bust at Ediiam, but wrote verses for the occasion. In November made a 
sliort visit — his last — to lidinburgh, and shortly afterwards wrote his inimitable 
farewell to Clarinda, Ac fond kiss and titen we sez'er. The fourth stanza of this 
song Sir Walter Scott said contained " the essence of a thousand love tales." 

DUMFRIES. 

At Martinmas (Nov. 11), the poet having disposed of his stock and other 
effects at EUisland, and surrendered the lease of the farm to Mr. Miller the pro- 
prietor, removed with his family to the town of Dumfries. He occupied for a 
year and a half three rooms of a second floor on the north side of Bank .Street 
(then called the Wee Vennel). On taking up his residence in the town, Burns 
was well received by the higher class of inhabitants and the neighboring gentry. 
One of the most accomplished of the latter was Mrs. Walter Riddel {nee Maria 
Woodley), then aged only about eighteen. This Indv, with her husband, a 
brother of Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, lived on a small estate about four miles 
from Dumfries, which in compliment to the lady they called W^oodley Park (now 
(Joldielea). 

' Mrs. Burns was much attached to the child, who remained with her till she was seventeen 
years of age, when she married a soldier, John Thomson of the Stirling Militia. She i.s still 
living, and strongly resembles her father. Poor Aniia the mother felt deeply the disgrace; she, 
however, made a decent marriage in Leith, but died comparatively young, without any family by 
her husband. 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



1792 — (Thirty -three). 

February 27. — Burns behaved gallantly in seizing and boarding a smuggling 
brig in the Solway. The vessel, with her arms and stores, was sold by auction in 
Dumfries, and Burns purchased four carronades or small guns, foi which he paid 
£,2)- These he sent, with a letter, to the French Convention, but they were re- 
tained at Dover by the Custom-house authorities. This circumstance is supposed 
to have drawn on the poet the notice of his jealous superiors. He warmly sympa- 
thized with the French people in their struggle against despotism, and the Board 
of Excise ordered an inquiry into the poet's political conduct, though it is doubt- 
ful whether any reprimand was ever given him. In September Mr. George 
Thomson, Edinburgh, commenced his publication of national songs and melodies, 
and Burns cordially lent assistance to the undertaking, but disclaimed all idea 
or acceptance of pecuniary remuneration. On the 14th of November he trans- 
mitted to Thomson the song of Highland Mary, and next month one of the most 
arch and humorous of all his ditties, Duncan Cray cam here to woo. 

1793 — (Thirty-four). 

The poet continues his invaluable and disinterested labors for Mr. Thomson's 
publication. In July he makes an excursion into Calloway with his friend Mr. 
Syme, stamp distributor, and according to that gentleman (though Burns's own 
statement on the subject is different), he composed his national song, Scots -ivha hae, 
in the midst of a thunder-storm on the wilds of Kenmure. The song was sent to 
Thomson in September, along with one no less popular, Auld Lang Syne. At 
Whitsuntide the poet removed from the " Wee Vennel " to a better house (rent 
£% per annum) in the Mill-hole Brae (now Burns Street), and in this house he 
lived till his death. I lis widow continued to occupy it till her death, March 26, 
1834. 

1794 — (Thirty-five). 

At a dinner-party at Woodley Park, on one occasion the poet, like most of the 
guests, having exceeded in wine, was guilty of some act of rudeness to the 
accomplished hostess whick she and her friends resented very warmly. A rupture 
took place, and for nearly a twelvemonth there was no intercourse between the 
parties. During this interval Burns wrote several lampoons on Mrs. Riddel, 
wholly unworthy of him as a man or as a poet. April 4, Captain Riddel of 
Glenriddel died unreconciled to Burns, yet the latter honored his memory with 
a sonnet. August 12, another son born to the poet, and named James Glencairn. 
During this autumn and winter Burns wrote some of his finest songs, inspired by 
the charms of Jane Lorimer, the " Chloris " of many a lyric. In November he 
composed his lively song, Contented wV little and catttie wi' mair, which he 



Hi CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



intended as a picture of his own mind; but it is only, as Mr. Chambers says, the 
picture of one aspect of his mind. Mr. Perry of the Morning Chronicle wishes to 
engage Burns as a contributor to his paper, but the " truly generous offer " is 
declined, lest connection with the Whig journal should injure his prospects in the 
Excise. For a short time he acted as supervisor, and thought that his political 
sins were forgiven. 

1795 — (Thirty-six). 

In January the poet composed his manly and independent song For «' that and 
«' that. His intercourse with Maria Riddel is renewed, and she sends him 
occasionally a book, or a copy of verses, or a ticket for the theatre. He never 
relaxes his genial labors for the musical works of Johnson and Thomson, and ie 
writes a series of election ballads in favor of the Whig candidate, Mr. Heron. 
He joins the Dumfriesshire corps of Volunteers, enrolled in the month of March, 
and writes his loyal and patriotic song. Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? also 
his fine national strain. Their groves of szveet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, and 
one of the best of his ballads, Last May a brazu wooer. The poet's health, 
however, gives way, and premature age has set in. 

1796 — (Thirty-Seven) 

The decline of the poet is accelerated by an accidental circumstance. One 
night in January he sat late in the Globe Tavern. There was deep snow on the 
ground, and in going home he sank down, overpowered by drowsiness and the 
liquor he had taken, and slept for some hours in the open air. From the cold 
caught on this occasion he never wholly recovered. He still, however, continued 
his song-writing, and one of the most beautiful and most touching of his lyrics 
was also one of his latest. This was the song beginning Here's a health to ane I 
lo'e dear, written on Jessy Lewars, a maiden of eighteen, sister to a brother excise- 
man, who proved a " ministering angel " to the poet in his last illness. In May, 
another election called forth another ballad, Wha will buy my iroggin ? And 
about the middle of June we find the poet writing despondingly to his old friend 
Johnson, and requesting, a copy of the Scots Musical Museum to present to a 
young lady. This was no doubt the copy presented to Jessy Lewars, June 26, 
Snscrilied with the verses, Thine he the volumes, fessy fair. As a last effort for 
health. Burns went on the 4th of July to Brow, a sea-bathing hamlet on the Sol- 
way. There he was visited by Maria Riddel, who thought " the stamp of death 
was imprinted on his features." He was convinced himself that his illness would 
prove fatal, and some time before this he had said to his wife, " Don't be afraid : 
I'll be more respected a hundred years after I am dead, than I am at present." 
Mrs. Riddel saw the poet again on the 5th of July, when they parted to meet no 
hiore. On the 7th he wrote to his friend Alexander Cunningham to move the 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. liii 



Coinmissoners of Excise to continue his full salary of £, 50 instead of reducing it, 
as was the rule in the case of excisemen off duty, to ;^35. Mr. Findlater, his 
superior officer, says he had no doubt this would have been done had the poet 
lived. On the loth Burns wrote to his brother as to his hopeless condition, his 
debts, and his despair; and on the same day he addressed a request to his father- 
in-law, stern old James Armour, that he would write to Mrs. Armour, then in Fife, 
to come to the assistance of her daughter, the poet's wife, during the time of her 
confinement. His thoughts turned also to his friend Mrs. Dunlop, who had 
unaccountably been silent for some time. He recalled her interesting correspon- 
dence : " With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance 
adds yet one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! " Close on 
this dark hour of anguish came a lawyer's letter urging payment — and no doubt 
hinting at the serious consequences of non-payment — of a haberdasher's account. 
This legal missive served to conjure up before the distracted poet the image of a 
jail with all its horrors, and on the 12th he wrote two letters — one to his cousin 
in Montrose begging an advance of £ 10, and one to Mr. George Thomson im- 
ploring ;^ 5. "Forgive, forgive me! " He left the sea-side on the i8th, weak 
and feverish, but was able the same day, on arriving at his house in Dumfries, to 
address a second note to James Armour, reiterating the wish expressed six days 
before, but without eliciting any reply : " Do, for Heaven's sake, send Mrs. 
Armour here immediately." From this period he was closely confined to bed 
(according to the statement of his widow), and was scarcely "himself'''' for half 
an hour together. He was aware of this infirmity, and told his wife that she was 
to touch him and remind him when he was going wrong. One day he got out of 
his bed, and his wife found him sitting in a Corner of the room with the bed- 
clothes about him; she got assistance, and he suffered himself to be gently led 
back to bed. The day before he died he called very quickly and with a hale 
voice, "Gilbert! Gilbert! " On the morning of the 2 1st, at daybreak, death was 
obviously near at hand, and the children were sent for. They had been removed 
to the house of Jessy Lewars and her brother, in order that the poet's dwelling 
might be kept quiet, and they were now summoned back that they might have a 
last look' of their illustrious father in life. He was insensible, his mind lost in 

ilclirium, and, according to his eldest son, his last words were, " That d d 

rascal, Matthew Penn! " — an execration against the legal agent who had written 
the dunning letter. And so ended this sad and stormy life-drama, and the poet 
passed, as Mr. Carlyle has said, " not softly but speedily into that still country 
where the hail-storms and fire-showers do not reach, and the heaviest-laden way- 
farer at length lays down his load." On the evening of Sunday, the 24th of July, 
the poet's remains were removed from his house to the Town Hall, and next day 
were interred with military honors. 



CONTENTS. 



Biographical Prefacb 



Page 



POEMS. 

The Twa Dogs i 

Scotch Drink 6 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer . . 9 

The Holy Fair 14 

Death and Doctor Hornbook 19 

The Brigs of Ayr 24 

The Ordination 29 

The Calf 30 

Address to the Dcil 31 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor 

Mailie, the Author's only Pet Yowe . . 32 

Poor Mailie's Elegy 33 

To James Smith 34 

A Dream 36 

The Vision ........... 38 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly 

Righteous 41 

Tarn Samson's Elegy 42 

Halloween 44 

The Jolly Beggars 48 

The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning 

Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie . 53 
To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest 

with the plough 54 

A Winter Night 55 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet .... 57 
The Lament, occasioned by the Unfortu- 
nate Issue of a Friend's Amour ... 59 

Despondency 60 

Winter 61 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 61 

Man was made to mourn 65 

A Prayer, in the Prospect of Death ... 66 

Stanzas on the same occasion 67 

Verses left by Burns in a Room where he 

slept , 67 

The First Psalm 68 

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent 

anguish 68 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm . 68 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one 

down with the plough 69 

To Ruin 69 

To Miss Logan, with Bealtie's Poems . . 70 

Epistle to a Young Friend 70 

On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West 

Indies 71 

To a Hag^s 72 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 72 
To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's 

Bonnet at Church 74 



Fagf 

Address to Edinburgh 73 

Epistle to John Lapraik, an old Scottish 

Bard 75 

To the Same 77 

To William Simpson 78 

Epistle to John Rankine 81 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage ... 82 

Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald, 83 

Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson . . 83 
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the 

Approach of Spring 85 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq 86 

To Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq. . . 88 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . . 89 
Lines sent to Sir John Whitcford, of White- 
ford, Bart., with the foregoing Poem. . go 

Tam O'Shanter 91 

On the late Captain Grose's Peregrinations 

through Scotland 95 

On seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me . 96 
Address to the Shade of Thomson, on 

crowning his Bust at Ednam .... 97 

To Miss Cruikshank 97 

On the Death of John M'Leod, Esq. . . 97 
The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to 

the noble Duke of Athole 98 

The Kirk's Alarm 99 

Address to the Toothache 101 

Written with a Pencil over the Chimney- 
piece, in the Parlour of the Inn at Ken- 
more, Taymoutli loi 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, born 
in Peculiar Circumstances of Family 

Distress 102 

Written with a Pencil, standing by the Fall 

of Fyers, near Loch-Ness 103 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet . 103 
The Inventory of the Poet's Goods and 

Chattels 104 

The Whistle 105 

Sketch, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. 

Fox 107 

To Dr. Blacklock 108 

Prologue spoken at the Theatre, Ellisland, 109 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet .... 109 
The following Poem was written to a gen- 
tleman who had sent him a newspaper, 

and ofTcred to continue it free of expense, no 

Lines on an interview with Lord Daer. . iii 
The Rights of Woman. Prologue spoken 

by Miss Fontenelle 11 1 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle . . 112 

Verses to a Young Lady 113 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry 114 

Verses to Chloris, with a copy of the last 

Edition of his Poems J14 

Poetical Address to Mr. William Tytler . 115 



Ivi 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Sketch. — New- Year Day ii6 

Extempore, on Mr. William Smellie . . ii6 

Inscription lor an Altar to Independence . 117 

Monody on a Laely famed for her Caprice, 117 
Sonnet on the Deatli of Robert Riddel, 

Esq., of Glenriddel 118 

Impromptu, on Mrs. Riddel's Birthday . 118 

To Miss Jessy Levvars, Dumfries . . . 118 

Verses wrUlen under violent grief . , . 119 
Extempore to Mr. Syme, on refusing to 

dine with him 119 

To Mr. Syme 119 

Sonnet, on hearing a Thrush sing . . . 119 

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell . . . . 120 

Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended, 120 

Poem on Life 121 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry . . 121 

Epitaph on a Friend 121 

Verses written at Selkirk 122 

Inscription on the Tombstone of the Poet 

Fergussou 123 

A Grace before Dinner 123 

A Verse, repeated on taking leave at a 

place in the Highlands 123 

Liberty 123 

Fragment of an Ode to the Memory of 

Prince Charles Edward Stuart .... 124 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux . 124 
Answer to Verses addressed to the Poet by 

the Guidwife of Wauchope-House . . 125 

To J. Lapraik 125 

The Twa Herds 126 

To the Rev. John M'Math 128 

Holy Willie's Prayer 130 

Epitaph on Holy Willie 131 

On scaring some Water Fowl in Loch- 

Turit 132 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline . . 132 

Epistle to Mr. M'Adam 133 

To Captain Riddel, (Slenriddcl .... 133 
Verses intended to be written below a 

noble Earl's Picture 134 

To Terraughty, on his Birthday . . . . 134 
To a Lady, with a present of a Pair of 

Drinking Glasses 134 

The Vowels 135 

Sketch 135 

Prologue for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit . . 136 

Eleyy on the Year 1788 137 

Verses written under the Portrait of Fer- 

gussou the Poet 137 

Lament, written at a time when the Poet 

was about to leave Scotland .... 138 

Delia .138 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 138 

To Miss Ferrier 140 

Verses to an old Sweetheart, then married, 140 
The Poet's Welcome to his Illegitimate 

Child 140 

Letter to John Oondie, Kilmarnock . . 141 

Letter to James Tennant, Glenconner . . 141 

Epistle from Esopus to Maria 142 

On a Suicide 144 

A Farewell 144 

The Farewell 144 

Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq 144 

Stanzas on the Duke of Queensberry . . 147 



Page 
Verses on the Destruction of the Woods 

near Drumlanrig 147 

Epistle to Major Logan 148 

Epitaph on the Poet's Daughter .... 149 

Epitaph on Gabriel Richardson .... 149 

On Stirling 149 

Lines on being told that the foregoing 

Poem would affect his Prospects . . . 150 

The Reply 150 

Epistle to Hugh Parker 150 

Address of Beelzebub '.o the President of 

the Highland Society 150 

To Mr. John Kennedy 151 

On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq. . 153 

To John M'Murdo, Esq 153 

On tlie Death of a Lap-dog, named Echo . 153 

Lines written at Loudon Manse .... 153 
OrthQdo.\, Orthodox. A Second Version 

of the Kirk's Alarm 153 

The Selkirk Grace 155 

Elcyy on the Death of Peg Nicholson . . 155 
On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite 

Character 155 

The League and Covenant 155 

On Miss Jessy Lewars 156 

Epitaph on Miss Jessy Lewars .... 156 

The Recovery of Jessy Lewars .... 156 

The Toast 156 

The Kirk of Lamington 156 

Written on a blank leaf of one of Miss 

Hannah More's Works, which she had 

given him 156 

Inscription on a Goblet 157 

The Book -worms 157 

On Robert Riddel 157 

Willie Chalmers 157 

To John Taylor 158 

Lines written on a Bank-note 158 

The Loyal Natives' Verses 158 

Burns's Reply — Extempore 158 

Remorse .158 

The Toad-Eater 159 

To — 159 

" In vain would Prudence " 159 

" Though fickle Fortune " 159 

" I burn, I burn" 160 

Epigram on a noted Coxcomb .... 160 

Tam the Chapman 160 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Craig's 

Recovery 161 

Fragment 161 

There's Naethin like the honest Nappy . i6i 
Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods on his 

Benefit-night. ......... 161 

Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed 

to G. H., Esq 162 

The Cats like Kitchen 163 

Tragic Fragment _. . 163 

Extempore. On passing a Lady's Carriage, 163 

Fragments 164 

Epitaph on William Nicol ...... 165 

Ansuer to a Poetical Epistle sent the 

Author by a Tailor 165 

Extempore lines, in answer to ' a card 

from an intimate Friend of Burns . . 1C6 
Lines written Extempore in a Lady's 

PocVct-book 167 



COI^TENTS. 



Ivii 



Pa^e 

The Henpeck'd Husband . . . . • . 167 

Epitaph on a Henpeck'd Country Squire . 167 

Epigram on said occasion 167 

Another 167 

Verses written on a Window of the Inn at 

Carron 168 

Lines on being asked why God had made 

Miss Davies so little and Mrs. so 

large 168 

Epigram. Written at Inverary .... 168 
A Toast. Given at a meeting of the Dum- 
fries-shire Vohinteers 168 

Lines said to have been written by Burns, 

while on his Deathbed, to John Rankinc, 169 
Verses addressed to J. Kankine .... 169 
On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord Gal- 
loway 169 

On the Same 169 

On the Same 169 

To the Same, on the Author being threat- 
ened with his Kesentment 169 

Verses to J. Rankine 170 

Extemporaneous Effusion, on being ap- 
pointed to the Excise 170 

On hearing that there was p'alsehood in 

the Rev. Dr. li 's very Looks. . . 170 

Poverty 170 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish . . . 170 
Lines written and presented to Mrs. 

Kemble 171 

Lines written on a Window at the King's 

Arms Tavern, Dumfries 171 

Lines written on the Window of the Globe 

Tavern, Dumfries 171 

Extempore in the Court of Session . . . 171 
Lines written under the Picture of Miss 

Burns 172 

On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr 172 

Epigram on Captain P'rancis Grose . . . 172 
Epigram on P".lphinstone's Translation of 

Martial's Epigrams 172 

''ipitaph on a Country Laird 172 

Epitaph on a Noisy Polemic 173 

Epitaph on Wee Johnny 173 

Epitaph on a celebrated ruling Elder . . 173 

Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq 173 

Epitaph for Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . . . 173 

A Bard's Epitaph 173 

Epitaph on my Father 174 

Epitaph on John Dove 174 

Epitaph on John Bushby 174 

Epitaph on a Wag in Mauchline . . . . 174 
Epitaph on a Person nicknamed " The 

Marquis" 175 

Epitaph on Walter S 175 

On Himself 175 

Grace before Meat 175 

On Commissary Goldie's Brains .... 175 

Impromptu 175 

Addressed to a Lady whom the Author 

feared he had offended 175 

Epigr.am 176 

Lmes inscribed on a Platter 176 

To 176 

On Mr. M'Murdo 176 

To a Lady who was looking up the Text 

during Sermon 176 



Page 

Impromptu 176 

To 177 

To a Painter 177 

Lines written on a Tumbler 177 

On Mr. W. Cruikshank, of the High 

School, Edinburgh 177 



SONGS. 



The Lass o' Ballochmyle 

Song of Death 

My ain kind Dearie O 

Auld Rob Morris 

Naebody 

My Wife's a winsome wee Thing . . . 

Duncan Gray 

O Poortith 

>Galla Water 

Lord Gregory 

Open the Door to Me, oh ! 

Meg o' the Mill 

Jessie 

Wandering Willie 

Logan Braes 

There was a Lass 

Phillis the Fair 

By .\llan Stream 

Had 1 a Cave 

Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad 
Husband, Husband, cease your Strife . . 

Deluded Swain 

Song 

Wilt thou be my Dearie? 

Banks of Cree 

On the Seas and far away 4 

Hark! the Mavis 

She says she lo'cs me best of a' . 

How lang and dreary 

The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mis- 
tress 

Lassie wi' the lint-white Locks . . . . 

The Auld Man 

Farewell, thou Stream 

Contented wi' little 

My Nannie's awa' 

Sweet fa's the Eve 

Lassie, art thou sleeping yet? . . . . 

Song .... 

'Twas na her bonie blue Ee 

Address to the Woodlark 

How cruel are the Parents ...... 

Mark yonder Pomp 

1 see a Form, I sec a Face 

O bonie was yon rosy Brier 

Forlorn, my Love 

Last May a braw Wooer 

Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher 

Altno' thou maun never be mine .... 

The Birks of Aberfeldy 

The young Highland Rover 

Stay, my Charmer 

Full well thou know'st 

Slrathallan's Lament 

Raving Winds around her blowing . . . 

Musing on the roaring Ocean 

Blithe was she 



178 

178 
179 
179 
180 
180 
180 
180 



182 
183 
183 



185 
iSs 
186 
186 
186 
186 
187 
187 
187 



190 
190 
191 
191 
191 
192 
192 
192 
193 
193 
193 
193 
194 
19s 
195 
196 
,96 

'97 
197 
197 
'97 

198 



Iviii 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Peggy's Charms 198 

The lazy Mist 198 

A Rose-bud by my early Walk .... 199 

Tibbie, I hae seen the Day 199 

I love my Jean 199 

O, were I on Parnassus' Hill! .... 200 

The blissful Day 200 

The Braes of Ballochmyle 200 

The happy Trio zoo 

The blue-eyed Lassie 201 

John Anderson my Jo 201 

Tam (Jlen 201 

Gane is the Day 201 

My Tocher's the Jewel 202 

What can a young Lassie do wi' an Old 

Man? 202 

O, for ane and twenty, Tam ! 203 

The bonie wee Thing 203 

The Banks of Nith 203 

Bessy and her Spinnin Wheel 203 

Country Lassie 204 

Fair Eliza 204 

She's fair and fause 204 

The Posie 205 

The Banks o' Doon 206 

Version printed in the Musical Museum . 206 

Gloomy December 206 

Behold the Hour 207 

Willie's Wife 207 

Afton Water 207 

Louis, what reck 1 by thee? 208 

Bonie Bell 208 

For the sake of Somebody 208 

May, thy Morn 208 

The lovely Lass of Inverness 208 

A reij, red Rose 209 

O, wat ye wha's in yon Town? .... 209 

A Vision 209 

O, wert thou in the cauld blast .... 210 

The Highland Lassie . 210 

Jockey's ta'en the parting Kiss .... 210 

Peggy's Charms 211 

Up in the Morning early 211 

Tho' cruel Fate 211 

1 dream'd I lay where: Flowers were 
springing 211 

Bonie Ann 211 

My Bonie Mary 212 

My Heart's in the Highlands 212 

There's a Youth in this City 212 

The rantin Dog the Daddie o't . . . . 213 

I do confess thou art sae fair 213 

Yon wild mossy Mountains 213 

Wha is that at my Bower Door? .... 214 

Farewell to Nancy 214 

The bonie Blink o' Mary's Ee .... 214 

Out over the Forth 214 

The bonie Lad that's far away .... 214 

The gowden Locks of Anna 215 

Banks of Devon 215 

Adown winding Nith zi6 

Streams that glide 216 

The De'il's awa' wi' the Exxiseman . . 216 

Blithe hae I been on yon Hill 217 

O were my Love yon Lilac fair .... 217 

Come, let me take thee 217 

Where arc the Joys? 217 



Page 

O saw ye my Dear? 218 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie .... 218 

My Chloris 218 

Charming Month of May 219 

Let not Woman e'er complain .... 210 

O Philly 219 

John Barleycorn 220 

Canst thou leave me thus? 221 

On Chloris being ill 221 

When Guilford good our Pilot stood . . 221 

The Rigs o' Barley 222 

Farewell to Eliza 222 

My Nanie, O 223 

Green grow the Rashes 223 

Now westlin Winds 223 

The big-bellied Bottle 224 

The Author's Farewell to his native 

Countiy 225 

The Farewell 225 

And maun I still on Menie doat .... 225 

Highland Mary 226 

Auld Lang Syne 226 

Bannockburn 227 

The gallant Weaver 227 

Song 227 

For a' that and a' that 227 

Dainty Davie 228 

To Mr. Cunningham 228 

Clarinda 229 

Why, why tell thy Lover? 229 

Caledonia 229 

On the battle of Sheriff-Muir 230 

The Dumfries Volunteers 231 

O wha is she that lo'es me? 231 

Captain Grose 232 

Whistle owre the Lave o't 232 

O, once I lov'd a bonie Lass 232 

Young Jockey 233 

M'Pherson's Farewell 233 

The Dean of Faculty 233 

ril ay ca' in by yon Town 234 

A Bottle and a Friend 234 

I'll kiss thee yet 234 

On Cessnock Banks 234 

Prayer for Mary 235 

Young Pegg)' . . . . . . . . . .235 

There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes 

hame 236 

There was a Lad 236 

To Mary 236 

Mary Morison 237 

The Soger's Return 237 

My Father was a Farmer 238 

A Mother's Lament for the Death of her 

Son 239 

Bonie Lesley 239 

Amang the Trees . 239 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle . . . 239 

On Sensibility 239 

Montgomerie's Peggy 240 

On a Bank of Flowers 240 

O raging Fortune's withering Blast i . . 240 

Evan Banks 240 

Won.en's Minds 241 

To Mary in Heaven 241 

To Mary 242 

O leave Novels . 242 



CONTENTS. 



Hx 



Page 

Address to General Dumoiirier .... 242 

Sweetest May 242 

One Night as I did wander 242 

The Winter it is Past 243 

Fragment 243 

The Chevalier's Lament 243 

The Holies of Mauchline 243 

The TarboUon Lasses 244 

The Tarbolton Lasses 244 

Here's a Health to them that's awa' • . 245 

I'm owre young to marry yet 246 

Damon and Sylvia 246 

My Lady's Gown there's Gairs upon't . . 246 

O ay my Wife she dang me 247 

The Banks of Nith 247 

Bonie Peg 247 

O lay thy Loof in mine, Lass 247 

O guid Ale comes 247 

O why the Deuce 247 

Polly Stewart 248 

Robin shure in hairst 248 

The five Carlins 248 

The Deuk's dang o'er my D.iddie . . . 249 

The Lass that made the Bed to me . . . 249 

The Union 250 

There was a bonie Lass 250 

My Harry was a Gallant gay 251 

Tibbie Dunbar 251 

Wee Willie 251 

Craigie-burn-wood 251 

Here's his Health in Water 252 

As down the Burn they took their Way . 252 

Lady Onlie 252 

As I was a wandering 252 

Bannocks o' Barley 253 

Our Thrissles flourished fresh and fair . . 253 

Peg-a-Ramsey 253 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie 253 

Braw Lads of Galla Water 254 

Coming through the Rye 254 

The Lass of Ecclefechan 254 

The Slave's Lament 255 

Had I the Wyte 255 

Hee Balou 255 

Her Daddie forbad 255 

Here's to thy Health, my bonie Lass . . 256 

Hey, the dusty Miller 256 

The Cardin o't 256 

The joyful Widower 256 

Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary 257 

The Farewell 257 

It is na, Jean, thy bonie Face 257 

Jamie, come try me 258 

Landlady, count the Lawin 258 

My Love she's but a Lassie yet .... 258 

My Heart was ance 258 

Lovely Davies 259 



Page 

Kcnmure's on and awa 259 

The Captain's Lady 259 

Lady Mary Ann 260 

The Highland Widow's Lament .... 260 

Merry liae I been teethin' a Heckle . . 260 

Ratthn", roarin' Willie 261 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet .... 261 

Sae far awa 262 

O steer her up 262 

O, whar did ye get 262 

The I'ete Champetre 262 

Sinnner's a pleasant Time 263 

The blude red Rose at Yule may blaw . . 263 

The Highland Laddie 2C4 

The Cooper o' Cuddie 264 

Nilhsdalc's welcome Hame 265 

The Tailor 265 

The lilher Morn 265 

The Carle of Kellyburn Braes .... 266 

There was a Lass 267 

'J'he weary Pund o' Tow 268 

The Ploughman 268 

The Carles of Dysart . ." 268 

Weary fa* you, Duncan Gray 269 

My Hoggie • . . . . -269 

Where hae ye been 269 

Cock up your Beaver 269 

The Heron Ballads. First Ballad . . . 269 

The Election. Second Ballad 270 

An excellent new Song. Third Ballad . . 271 

John Bushby's Lamentation 272 

Ye Sons of Old Killie 273 

Ye Jacobites by name 273 

Song — Ah, Chloris 274 

Whan I sleep I dream 274 

Katharine Jaffray 274 

The Collier Laddie 274 

When I think on the happy Days . . . 274 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the Plain . . . 275 

The Heather was blooming 27s 

Wae is my Heart 275 

Eppie M'Nab 276 

An, O! my Eppie 276 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer 276 

O that I had ne'er been married .... 277 

There's News, Lasses ....... 277 

Scroggam 277 

Frae the Friends and Land I love . . . 277 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith . , . 277 

The bonie Lass of Albany 278 

Song 278 

Appendix: — 

Elegy 280 

Extempore. To Mr. Gavin Hamilton . 280 

Versicles on Sign-posts 281 



CONTENTS TO THE LETTERS. 



Vlli. to X. To Mr. James Buriies 
XI. To Miss - 



XII. To Miss.K.- 



No. Page 

1. to IV. To Miss Ellison Begbie . . 285 to 288 

V. To William Burness 289 

VI. To Mr. John Murdoch .... 2C)0 

VII. Observations, &c., from the Poet's 

Commonplace Book, sent to 

Mr. Robert Riddel .... 291 

299 to 301 

303 

303 

304 

305 
305 
306 
307 
307 
308 
308 
3°9 
305 



John 



XIII. To Mr. John Richmond 

XIV. To Mr. Robert Muir. 

XV. To Mr. David lirice 
XVI. To Mr. John Richmond 
xvii. To Mr. David Brice 

xviii. To Mr. John Richmond 

XIX. To Mons. James Smith 

XX. To Mr. John Kennedy 
XXI. To Mr. Robert Muir. 
xxil. To Mr. Burnes . . 

xxiii. To Mr. Robert Aiken 
XXIV. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

XXV. To Mrs. Stewart . . 

XXVI. To Dr. Mackenzie . 
xxvii. To Miss Alexander . 

xxvm. To William Chalmers and 
McAdam . . . 
XXIX. To Mr. Robert Muir 
XXX. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
XXXI. To James Dalrj'mple, Esq 
XXXII. To John Ballantine, Esq. 
xxxiii. To Mr. Robert Mnir 
XXXIV. To Mr. William Chalmers 
XXXV. To the Earl of Eglinton 
xxxvi. xxxvii. To John Ballantine, Esq 



xxxviii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 

xxxix. To Dr. Moore .... 

XL. To the Rev. G. Lawrie . 

XLi. To Dr. Moore .... 

XLii. To John Ballantine, Esq. 

XLiii. To the Earl of Glencairn 

XLIV. To the Earl of Buchan . 

XLV. To Mr. James Candlish . 

XLVI. To 



XLVII. XI VIII. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 

XLIX. To Dr. Moore 

L. To Mrs. Dunlop .... 
LI. To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair 
Lll. To Mr. \V. Nicol .... 
Llii. To Mr. James Smith . . . 
Liv. To William Nicol, Esq.. . 
LV. To Robert Ainslic, Esq. . 



321 

322 
323 
324 
325 
326 
327 

327 
328 
329 
329 
. 331 
332 
332 
333 
334 
335 
335 
33S 



351 



cxxvi. cxxvii. Sylvander to CIsrinda 

cxxviii. To Mr. Richard Brown 

cxxix. To Mr. Robert Muir. . . 

cxxx. To Mrs. Dunlop . . ._ , 

cxxxi. To Miss Chalmers . . _. 

cxxxii. to cxxxv. Sylvander to OarJnda, 

407, 408 
cxxxvi. To Mr. Richard Brown .... 409 
cxxxvii. To Mr. Robert Cleghorn . . . 409 



Page 

336 
33S 
339 
347 



349 
35° 

352 
352 
3S3 
354 
355 

356 
356 
357 
353 
359 



No. 
Lvi. To Mr. James Smith . . 
Lvii. To Mr. John Richmond 
Lvui. To Dr. ^loore .... 
LIX. To Air. Robert Muir. . 
LX. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq 
LX'. To Mr. Walker . . . 
LXii. To Mr. Gilbert Burns . 
LXlil. LXiv. To Miss M. Chalmers 
Lxv. To James Hoy, Esq. 
Lxvi. To Rev. John Skinner . 
Lxvii. To James Hoy, Esq. 
Lxviii. To Robert .\inslie, Esq. 
LXIX. To Miss Mabane [afterwards M 

Col. Wright] . . , 
LXX. To Miss Chalmers . . 
Lxxi. To Sir John Whitcfoord 
Lxxii. To Gavin Hamilton . 
LXXiil. To Miss Chalmers 
Lxxiv. to i.xxvu. To Mrs. M'Lehose, 360 to 362 
Lxxviii. To Miss Ch.ilmers . . 
LXXIX. To Charles Hay, Esq. . 
Lxxx. To Miss Chalmers . . 
LXXXi. LXXXii. To Clarinda . . . 
Lxxxiil. To Mr. Richard Brown. 
LXXXiv. to xcii. To Clarinda . . 
xciii. To Miss Chalmers . . 
xciv. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
xcv. To Robert Graham, Esq. 
XCVI. To the Earl of Glencairn 
xcvii. to CXI. To Clarinda .... 38 
cxii. To Mr. James Candlish. . 
cxiii. To Mrs. Dunlop .... 
cxiv. To the Rev. John Skinner . 
cxv. To Mr. Richard Brown. . 
cxvi. To Miss Chalmers . . . 

ex VII. To Mrs. Rose 

CXVIU. cxix. To Clarinda .... 
cxx. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 
cxxi. To Mr. Richard Brown. . 

cxxil. To Clarinda 

cxxiii. To Mr. William Cruikshank 
cxxiv. To Mr. Robert Ainslie . . 
cxx v. To 



396 



363 
363 
364 
364 to 366 

367 
368 to 376 

373 



379 
380 
380 
to 392 
392 
393 
393 
394 
394 
395 
397 
398 



399 
400 
400 
401 
402 
404 
405 
406 
406 



CONTENTS TO THE LETT EPS. 



Ixi 



No. 
cxxxvill. To Mr. William Dunbar 
CXXXix. To Miss Chalmers . . 
CXL. To Mr. James Smith. . 
CXLI. To Mrs. Diinlop . . . 
CXLII. To Professor Stewart 
cxLiii. ToMrs. Dunlop . . . 
cxLiv. To Mr. Samuel Brown . 
cxuv. To Mr. Robert Ainslie . 
CXLVi. CXLVII. To Mrs. Dtinlop . 
CXL.'in. To Mr. Robert Ainslie . 
cxux. E.xtract from Commo 
Book ...... 

CL. To Mr. Robert Ainslie . 

CLI. To Mr. Peter Hill . . 

CLii. To Mr. George Lockhart 

CLlli. to CLV. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

CLVi. To Mr. Beugo .... 

CLVii. To Miss Chalmers . . 



npl, 



CLvm. To Mrs. Dunlop . 
CLix. To Mr. Peter Hill 



CLX. To the Editor of the " Star 
CLXi. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
Cl.xii. To Dr. Blacklock. . . 
CLXiu. To Mr. James Johnson . 
CLXiv. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
CLXV. To Miss Davies . . . 
CLXVi. To Mr. John Pennant . 
CLXvii. To Mr. William Cruikshank 
CLXviii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CLXix. To Dr. Moore . . . 
CLXX. To Mr. Robert Ainslie 
CLXXi. To Professor DugaLl Stewai 
CLXXii. To Bishop GedJcs . . 
CLXXiii. To Mr. James Burness . 
CLXXI V. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
CLXXV. To the Rev. P. Carfrae . 

CLXXVl. To Clarinda 

CLXXvii. To Dr. Moore .... 

ci-xxvni. To Mr. Hill 

CLXXix. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
CLXXX. To Mrs. McMurdo . . 
CLXXXi. To Mr. Cunningham 
CLXXXii. To Richard Brown . . 
CLXXXiii. To Mr. James Hamilton 
CLXxxiv. To William Creech . . 
CLXXXv. To Mr. McAuley . . . 
CLXXXVi. To Mr. Robert Ainslie . 
CLXXXvii. To Mr. [Peter Stuart] . 
CLXXxviu. To Miss Williams . . 
CLXXXix. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
cxc. To Lady Clencairn . . 
CXCI. To Mr. John Logan . 
cxcii. Tj Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
cxciii. Td Captain Riddel . . 
cxciv. To Mr. Robert Ainslie . 
cxcv. To Air. Richard Brown . 
CXCVI. To K. Graham, Esq. 
cxcvii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
cxcviii. Tj Sir John Sinclair . . 
CXCix. To Lady Winifred M 
Constable .... 
cc. To ('harlcs Sharpe, Esq. 
CCI. To Mr. Gilbert Burns . 
ecu. Tj Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. 
CClli. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
cciv. To Mr. Peter Hill . 



Page 
410 
411 
411 
412 
413 
413 
414 
414 
415 
416 



4'7 
418 
419 
420 
.423 
425 
426 
428 
429 
430 
432 
433 
434 
434 
435 
436 
436 

437 
438 

439 
440 

44 1 
442 

443 
445 
445 

446 

447 
443 
449 
450 
450 
451 
451 
452 
453 
454 
434 
457 
458 

459 
460 
461 
462 
463 
464 
463 
467 



470 
470 
471 
473 



No. 

ccv. Sylvander to Clarinda 

ccvi. To Mr. W. Nicol . . 

ccvii. To Mr. Cunningham 

ccvin. To Mr. Hill. . . . 

ccix. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

ccx. To Collector Mitchell 

ccxi. To Dr. Moore . . . 

ccxii. To Mr. Murdoch . . 

ccxni. To Mr. McMurdo . 

ccxiv. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

ccxv. To Mr. Cunningham 

ccxvi. To Dr. Anderson . . 

CCXVII. To Crauford I'ait, Esq. 

ccxviii. To .... 

ccxix. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

ccxx. To Mr. Peter Hill 

ccxxi. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. 

ccxxii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

ccxxiii. To the Rev. Arch. Alison 

ccxxiv. To Dr. Moore . . . 

ccxxv. To Mr. Cunningham 

ecxxvi. To Mr. Alexander Dalzel 

ccxxvii. To Mrs. Graham . . 

ccxxvin. To the Rev. G. B.aird 

ccxxix. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

ccxxx. To .... 

ccxxxi. To .... 



nda 



ccxxxii. To Mr. Cunningham. 
ccxxxiii. To the Eail of Buchan 
ccxxxiv. To Mr. Thomas Sloan 
ccxxxv. To Lady E. Cunningham 
ccxxxvi. To Mr. Ainslie. . 
ccxxxvi:. To Miss Davies . 
ccxxxviil. to CCXL. Sylvander to Clar 
CCXLI. To Mrs Dunlop . 
ccXLii.To Mr. William Smellie 
CCXLIII. To Mr. Peter Hill 
CCXLI V. To Mr. W. Nicol . 
CCXLV. To Francis Grose, Esq., 
CCXLVI. To Mrs Dunlop . . 
CCXLVII. To Mr. Cunningham 
ccXLvni. To Mr. G. Thomson . 
CCXLlx. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CCL. To G. I'homson . . 
CCLi. CCLII. To Mrs. Dunlop . 
CCLIII. CCLIV. To G. Thomson . 
CCLV. To Miss Fontenellc . 
CCLVI. To a Lady .... 
CCLVII. To Mrs. Riddel . . 
CCLVlii. To G. Thomson . . 
CCLIX. To R, Graham, Esq. 
CCLX. CCLXI. To Mrs. Dunlop . 
CCLXII. To G. Thomson . . 
CCLXIII. To Clarinda . . . . 
CCLXIV. To Mr. Cunningham 
CCLXV. To Miss Benson . . 
CCLXVI. To Patrick Miller, Esq. . 
CCLXVII. To G. Thomson . 
CCLXVIII. To John Francis Erskine, 
CCLXIX. To the Earl of Glencairn 
cci.xx. ccLXXi. To G. Thomson . 
CCLXXII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie . 
ccLXXiii. to ccLXXv. To G. Thomson . 
CCLXXVI. To Miss Helen Craik . . 
CCLXXVII. to ccLXXXiv. To G. Thomson, 

S33 to 537 



Page 

473 
474 
475 
477 

478 
480 



518 



Esq 



528 



530 



482 
482 
483 
483 
484 
485 



487 
488 
489 
48 > 
491 
492 
493 
493 
494 
493 
495 
i96 
'»97 
497 
498 

499 
499 
501 
502 
503 
503 
504 
505 
505 
507 
510 

5" 
5" 
513 
515 
515 
5.6 
516 
517 
517 
51) 
5'0 
52L 
521 
522 
523 
523 

525 
527 
529 
529 
531 
S33 



Ixii 



CONTENTS TO THE LETTERS. 



No. Page 

CCLXXXV. To John McMurdo, Esq. . . 537 
ccLXXxvi. To Captain [Robertson of 

Lude?J 538 

CCLXXXVii. To the Larl of Buchan . . . 539 

CCLXXXVin. To Mrs. Riddel . . _ . . . 539 

CCLXXXix. To Mr. Samuel Clark, jun. . 540 

ccxc to ccxcii. To Mrs. Riddel . 540 to 542 

ccxciu. To Mr. Cunningham. . . . 542 

ccxciv. To Miss 544 

CCXCV. To Mrs. Dunlop 545 

CCXCVI. To Mr. James Johnson . . . 545 

ccxcvii. To Clarnida 546 

ccxcviii. to cccvi. To G. Thomson, 547 to 552 

CCCVll. To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. . 553 

cccviii. cccix. To G. Thomson .... 554 

CCCX. To Mr. Heron 555 

cccxi. to cccxiii. To G. Thomson . . . 556 

CCCXiv. To Mrs. Riddel 557 

cccxv. cccxvi. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 557 to 559 

Notes 

Glossary 

Index 



No. Pagt 

cccxvil. To the Hon. the Provost, Bailies, 

and Town Council of Dumfries 560 

cccxviii. To Mrs. Riddel 560 

cccxix. To Mrs. Dunlop 561 

cccxx. To Mrs. Riddel 561 

cccxxi. cccxxn. To G.Thomson. . . . 562 
cccxxill. To Mr. James Johnson . . . 563 
cccxxiv. To Mr. Cunningham. . . . 564 
cccxxv. To Mr. Gilbert 15urns . . . 564 

CCCXXVl. To G. Thomson 565 

cccxxvii. To Mrs. Burns 565 

cccxxvni. To Mrs. Dunlop 565 

cccxxix. To Mr. James Burness . . . 566 

cccxxx. To G. Thomson 566 

cccxxxi. To James Gracie, Esq. . . . 567 
CCCXXXli. To Mr. James Armour . . . 567 

The Border Tour 567 

The Highland Tour S74 



583 
609 
629 



POEMS. 



THE POEMS 



ROBERT BURNS. 



POEMS. 



THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle. 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpit some place far al:>road, 
Whare sailors gang to lish for Cod. 

His locked, lettcr'd, braw brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
But tho' he was o' high degree. 
The fient a pride — nae pride had he; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gipsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
An' stroaii't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend and comrade had him. 
An' in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang, 
Was made lang syne, — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faith fu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dike. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place; 
His breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung owrc his hurdles wi' a swirl. 



THE TWA DOGS. 



Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither; 
\Vi' social nose wli\ ies snufPd and snowkit; 
Whylcs mice and moudieworts they howkit; 
Why Ies sc"Mr'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' worry'a ither in diversion; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
An' there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 
An' when the gentry's life T saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents: 
He rises when he likes himsel; 
His flunkies answer at the bell; 
He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse; 
He draws a bonie, silken jnirse 
As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling. 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; • 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin. 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan, 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtrie. 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit dieir painch in 
I own it's past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Cresar, vvhyles they're fash't eneugh; 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke. 
Baring a quarry, and siclike, 
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A sinytiie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his ban' darg, to keep 
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer. 
An' they matin starve o' cauld and hung<r; 



THE TWA DOGS. 



But, how it comes, I never kend yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented; 
An' huirtlly chiels, an clever hizzies. 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C^SAR. 

But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huffd, an cuff'd, an' disrespeckit ! 
Lord, man, our gentiy care as Hule 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle, 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a slinking brock. 

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day. 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear. 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 



They're no sae wretched's ane wad think: 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sac guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives: 
The prattling things are just their pride. 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' vvhyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs; 
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests, 
"Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin. 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns. 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
"When rural life, o' ev'ry station. 
Unite in common recreation; 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 



THE TWA DOGS. 



That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds; 
The nappy reeks \vi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round vvi' right guid will; 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes ranting thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy hae barket wi' them. 

Still its owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk. 
Are riven out baith root an' l)ranch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin. 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin — 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; 
For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it. 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: 
Or maybe, in a frolic daft. 
To Hague or Calais taks a waft. 
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl. 
To learn bon ton an' see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails; 
Or by Madrid he taks the rout. 
To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt; 
Or down Italian vista startles. 
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles: 
Then bouses clrumly German water. 
To mak himsel lot)k fair and fatter. 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
I.ove-gifts of Carnival Signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction ! 



Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gats 
They waste sae mony a braw estate? 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
Pbr gear to gang that gate at last? 



THE TWA DOGS. 



O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels \vi' countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! 
For thae fiank, rantin, ramlilin Inllies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
Except for breaking o' their tinnner. 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmcr, 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock. 
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Caisar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? 
Nae cauld nt)r hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 



Lord, man, were ye but whyles wliare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat. 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' (ill auld age wi' grips an' granes: 
I5ut human bodies are sic fools. 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills jierplex them. 
They niak enow themselves to vex them; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them. 
In like proportion, less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at tiie pleugh, 
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy : 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; 
Their nights unfjuict, laiig, an' restless; 

An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races. 
Their galloping thro' pul)lic places. 
There's sic parade, sic jioinp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party-matches, 
Then sovvthera' in deep del)auches. 
Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great an' gracious a' as sisters; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty; 
Or lee-lang nights, \vi' cralsbit leuks, 
Pore ower the devil's pictur'd beuks; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exceptions, man an' woman; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloamin brought the night: 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone. 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; 
When up they gat, an' shook tlicir lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
An' each took aft" his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gz'e him strong drink, until he wink. 

That's sinking in despair; 
An liquor giiid to fire his bluid. 

That's prest ivi' grief an' care; 
There lei him bouse, an deep carouse, 

IVi' bumpers fiowing o^er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts. 

Ah' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 

Let other Poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch l)ear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink, 
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink. 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink. 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn. 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' Pease an' Beans at een or morn. 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou King o' grain 1 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In soujile scones, (he wale o' food ! 
Or tuniblin in the boiling flood 

\\'i' kail an' hecf; 
But when thou pours tliy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 



Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin ; 

But oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 

VVi' raltlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil : 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head; 
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens line. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs anil rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd. 
When gaping tliey besiege the tents. 

Are doubly hr'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in ! 
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-Year mornin 

In cog or bicker. 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gics Iiis bellows breath, 
An' pKiughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fi/.z an' freath 

r th' lugget caup! 
Then Burnewin comes on like Death 

At ev'ry chaup. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The bri'n'iiie, banie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, \vi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehnmmer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light. 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae Howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee. 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her coiintr}'nien wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
An' hardly, in a winter's season. 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash, 

O' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, aiild Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 



Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
\t. chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain. 
Out owre a glass o' Whisky punch 

WI' honest men ! 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER. 

O Whisky ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Arc my poor verses ! 
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — s! 

Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic-giips, an' barkin hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'en avva ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Hand up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, sci/,c the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in l)runstane pies 

For poor damn'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thou'll Init gie me slill 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill. 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak' a' the rest. 
An' deal't about as thy lilind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER. 

TO THE RIGHT HONOURAIiLE AND IIONOURAnLE THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE 
HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

Dearest of Distillatton ! last and best — 

How art thou lost ! 

Parody on Milton. 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our bruglis an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In Parliament, 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse; 

Your Honours' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce. 

To see her sitten on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse. 

An' like tobrust! 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST 



Tell them wlia hae the chief direction, 
Scotlaiul an' lue's in great ainiclion, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On /Vquavitiu; 
An' rouse them up to strotig conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 

The lionest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humble : 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemlile ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

\Vi' them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want 'em. 

In gath'rin votes you were na slack; 
Is'ow stand as tightly by your tack; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle : 
An' damn'd Excisemen in a bussle, 

Sei/in a Stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 

A blackguard Smuggler, right behint her, 

An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie \'intner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as Winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising liot. 
To see his poor auld Milhcr's pot 

Thus dung in staves. 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! 



CR Y AND PR A YER. 



But could I like Montgomerics fight, 

Or gab like Boswell, 

There's some sark-necks I wad draw light, 
An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet. 

An' gar them hear it? 
An' tell them, vvi' a jiatriot-heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause. 
An' with rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran; 
Thee, ailh-dclcsling, chaste Kilkerran; 
An' that glib-gabbct Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham; 
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Err,kine, a spunkie Norland billie; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie; 

An' monie ithers. 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tally 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new jilcugh-pettle, 

Yc'll see't or lang. 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood. 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid; 
(Deil na they never niair do guid, 

riay'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' Lord, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' dark an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets. 
An* rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 



1 2 THE A UTIIOR 'S EARNES T 



For God sake, Sirs ! then sihmU Iht fair, 
An' straikher caniiio wi' the hair. 
An' to the iniichh- /loitse repair, 

Wi' instant speeil, 
An' strive, wi' a' yoiir wit and iear, 

'1\) tret remead. 



Yon ill tonj^uM tinkler, Charlie l'"ox, 
May taunt you wV his jeers an' mocks; 
But gie hini't het, my hearty cocks ! 

l'''en eowe tlic cadie I 
An' send him to his dieinjj-hox 

An' sportin laily. 

Tell yon fjuid Muid o' auUl l>oconnock's 
I'll he his debt twa mashhnn honnocks. 
An' ilrink his liealtli in auld Nanse Tinnock's 

Nine times a-week. 
If he sonic scheme, like tea an' winnocks. 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some ciMnmutation hroach, 
I'll ]ilcd.i:;e mv ailh in ijuid hraid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hoteh-i>otch, 
The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tonj;ue; 
She's just a de\il wi' a r\ing; 
An' if she promise aulil or young 

To tak their i">art, 
Tho' hy the neck she should he strung, 

She'll no desert. 



An' now, ye chosen l'"ive-and-l'"orty. 
May still your Mither's heart support yc; 
Then, thouL;h a Minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your lingers, ]ioor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

Cod bless your Honours a' your days, 
^Yi' st)wi)s o' kail an' hrats o' claise. 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's! 
Your humble Bardie sings an' pr.iys 

While Rab his name is, 



CJi Y AND PR A YER. 1 3 



POSTSCRri'T. 

Let hnlf-starvM slnvcs, in warmer skies. 
See future wines, rici\-clus^rin^^ rise; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

lUit blylhe an' frisky, 
Siie eyes lier free-horn, martial hoys, 

'lak aif their Whisky. 

Wliat tlio' their I'luehus kimler warms, 
Wiiile frajjrance hlooms an' i)eauly charms! 
When wretches ranj^e, in famish'd swarms, 

'I'he scented {proves. 
Or houndcil forth, dishonour arms 

In hunj^ry droves. 

Their j^un's a ])urden on tlieir shoulher; 
They downa hide the slink o' powther; 
Their hauldesl thou{;ht's a hank'ring swither 

'I'o Stan' or rin. 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' ihrowther, 

'I'o save their skin. 

But brinfj a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Iligidand (^ill. 
Say, such is royal tieorf^e's will, 

An' tiiere's the foe, 
He has nae thouj,dit hut how to kill 

'I'wa at a blow. 

Nae eauld, faint-hearled doui)tin};s tease him: 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; 
\Vi' hluidy han' a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest tlraugiil o' hreathiii lea'es him 

In faint hu7./as. 

Sajjcs their solemn ecu may steek, 
An' raise a i)hilosophic reek. 
An' physically causes seek. 

In clime an' season; 
l!ut tell me Whisky's name in (Jreek, 

I'll tell (he reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither! 
Till)' whyles ye moistify your leather. 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ve tine your dam; 
I'reedom and Whisky ^an^; thcj^ilher ! 

Tak alf ) our dram ! 



14 THE HOL Y FAIR. 



THE HOLY FAIR. 



A robe of seemitig truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung, luitli poison'd crust. 

The dirk of Defamation ; 
A mask that like the gorget shoivd, 

Dye-va rying on th e pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad. 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I wall<ed forth to view the com, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The risin' sun, owre Cialston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin; 
The hares were hirplin down the furrs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way. 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black. 

But ane wi' lyart lining; 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back. 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin. 

In feature, form, an' claes; 
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp. 

As light as ony lambie. 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonie face. 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' taks me by the ban's. 
"Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten comman's 

A screed some day. 



THE II OL Y FAIR. 



'5 



" My name is Fun — your cronie dear,' 

The nearest friend yc hac; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in dalTm : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on. 
An' meet you on the ln)ly spot; 

Faith, we'se hae line remarkin ! " 
Then I gaed lianie at crowdie-time. 

An' soon I made me ready; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a wearie bodie. 

In droves that day. 

Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters, 
There, swankies young, in hraw liraid-ciaith. 

Are springin owre the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpiu barelit, thrang. 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a wliang, 

An' farls, bak'd wi' butter, 

P"u' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped uj) wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin, 
Some carryin dails, some chairs an' stools, 

An' some are busy bleth'rin 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra gentry; 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw o' tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast an' bare neck, 
An' there, a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 

For fun this day. 



1 6 THE HOLY FAIR. 



Here, some are tbinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

\Vi' screw'd up, grace-proud faces; 
On that, a set o' chaps, at watch, 

Thrang winlcin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 



O happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkend that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation; 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin an wi' thumpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout. 

His eldritch squeel an' gestures, 
O how they fire the heart devout. 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day ! 

But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice; 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 



THE HOLY FAIR. 17 



What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral povv'rs an' reason? 
His English style, an' gesture fine. 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does deline, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poi^on'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-lit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God 

An' meek an niim has view'd it, 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road. 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate 

Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves. 

An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables: 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannilie he hums them; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafilins-wise o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup Commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, 

An' there the ]iint-sto\\p clatters; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink I it gi'es us mair 

Than eitlier School or College: 
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, 

It pings us fou o' Knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or onv stronger potion. 
It never fnils, on driiikiu' deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 



iS THE HOLY FAIR. 



The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table, weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're niakin observations; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts. 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts ; 

Black Kussel is na spairin : 
His piercing words, like Highlan swords. 

Divide the ji)ints an' marrow; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 

Our vera " sauls does harrow " 

Wi' fright that day ! 

A vast, vinbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane' 
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin. 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snoriii 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they \A'ere a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the fiirms and benches; 
An' cheese an' l)read, frae women's laps. 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the lire, 
Syne draws her kelibuck an' her knife; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld (".uidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 19 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O Wives, be niindfu', ance yoursel 

How boiiie lads ye wanted. 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

Now Clinkuml)ell, wi' rattling tow, 

Begins to jow an' cnjon; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' f;iith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine, 

There's some are fou o' brandy; 
An' monie jobs that day begin, 

May end in Houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd: 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd. 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend. 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell. 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 
„ 's a muckle pity. 



IT" 






DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I wasna fou, but just had plenty; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists au' witches. 

The rising moon began to glowr 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, \vi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about the hill. 
And todlin down on Willie's mill. 
Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

1 took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That pat me in an eerie swither; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shoutlier, 

Cltar-dangling, liang: 
A three-tacd leister on the ithcr 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava. 

And then its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

"Guid-een," quo' I; " Friend ! hao ye been mawin, 
When ithcr folk are busy sawin? " 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak; 
At length, savs I, "Friend, whare ve gaun, 

Will ye go back?" 

It spak right howe — " My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd." — Quoth I, " Cuid failh, 
Ye're maybe come to staji my breath; 

But tent me, billie: 
I red ye weel, tak car o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully ! " 

"Gudeman," quo' he, "put uji your whittle, 
I'm no desigii'd to try its mettle; 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no that spittle 

Out-ovvre my beard." 

"Weel, weel ! " says I, " a bargain be't; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat. 

Come gies your news; 
This while ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house." 

"Ay, ay ! " quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, laiig time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

An' cht)ke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, 

Sin' L «'as to the butching bred. 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scaur me; 
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade. 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his kiiig's-hood in a spleuchan! 
He's grown sae well acquaint \vi' Buchan 

An' ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers laugliin 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd niuny a gallant heart; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

1 threw a noble throw at ane; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain: 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 

" Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae furtify'd the part, 
That when I looked to my dart. 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

O' a kail-runt. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-h;\iul cowpit wi' my hurry. 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock; 
I might as weel hae try'd a (junrry 

O' hard whin rock. 



" E'en them he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 
At once he tells't. 



"And then, a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dnnensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As ABC. 

"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus Spirilus of capons; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, lilings, scrapings, 

Distill'd/tv se; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clipiiings, 

And mony mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole now," 
Quoth I, " if that thae news be true ! 
His braw calf-ward whare go wans grew, 

Sac white and bonie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; 

They'll ruin Johnnie ! " 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. 
And savs, " \'e needna yoke the jileugh, 
KirU-yards will soon lie till'tl eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear: 
They'll a' be trcnch'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 



DEA T/I AND DOCTOR HORNB OK. 23 

" Whare I kill'd ane a fair strac-death, 
By loss o' blood or want of breath, 
This night I'm <"ree to taU my aitli, 

That 1 lornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

Uy drap and pill. 

" An honest Wabstcr to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nicves were scarce well-bred. 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

Wiien it was sair; 
The wifeslade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mair. 

"A countra Laird had ta'cn the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts. 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmor-pets. 

Was Laird himsel. 



" Abonie lass, ye kend her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame : 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In 1 l()iiil)()uk's care; 
Horn sent her afF to her lang hamc. 

To hide it there. 

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay. 

All's weel pay'd for't; 
Yet stops me o* my lawfu' jirey, 

Wi' his damn'd dirt. 

"But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be S])e;iking o't; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Sot 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest lime we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin!" 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-lianimer sirak the liell 

Some wee, short hour ayont the twal. 

Which rnis'd us !)aith : 
I took the way that pleas'd mysei. 

And sae did Death. 



24 THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 

A POEM. 
INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ., AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough. 

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush; 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 

Or deep-ton'd ])lovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill. 

Shall he, must in the Peasant's lowly shed. 

To hardy independence bravely bred. 

By early poverty ti) hardship steel'd. 

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field; 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling ciinies, 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close. 

With all the venal soul t)f dedicating Prose? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings. 

He glous with all the spirit of the Ban!, 

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name 

AjkI hands the rustic Stranger up to fame. 

With hearifelt throes his grateful bosom swells 

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their sunmier toils, 
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 
Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
The death o' devils, snioor'd ^\ i' Ininistone reek : 
The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; 
The feather 'd Held-mates, Ijound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 



THE BRIGS OF A YR. 25 



(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, rutliless deeds!) 
Nae niair llie flovv'r in Held or meadow sj)rings; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings. 
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit lialf-lang tree : 
The hoary morns iirecede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 

'Twas in that season; when a simple Hard, 

Unknown and poor, sim[ilicity's reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 

By whim inspir'd, or hajily i)rest wi' care, 

lie left his bed and took his way\\ard rout, 

And down by Simpson's whecl'il the left about: 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate; 

Or whether, ra]5t in meditation high. 

He wander'd out he knew not where nor why;) 

The drowsy Dungeon clock had number'd two. 

And Wallace Tow'r had sworn the fact was true: 

The tide-swoln Firlh, wi' sullen-sounding roar. 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore : 

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e; 

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream. — 

When, lo ! on cither hand llie list'ning liard, 
The clanging sugh oi whistling wings is heard; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the Cn)s drives on the wheeling hare; 
Ana on th' Auld 13rig his airy shajie uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke. 
And ken the lingo of the sji'ritual folk; 
Pays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can ex])lain them, 
And ev'n the vera dcils they jjrawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig a|i])ear'd o' ancient I'ictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had wars'l'd lang, 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New I'liig was buskit, in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adanis got; 
In's han<l live ta]ier staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls an' wliirlygigums at the head. 
The Cioth was stalking round with anxious search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch; 
It chanc'd his new-come ncebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 



26 THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guid-een : — 

AULD BRIG. 
I doubt na, Frien', ye'U think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho', faith ! that date, I doubt, ye'U never see; 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle. 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BKIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street. 
Where twa wheel-l)arrows tremble when they meet. 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime. 
Compare wi' bonie 15rigs o' modern time? 
There's men of taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream, 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim. 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
O' sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! pufPd up wi' windy pride ! 
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
But twa-three winters will inform ye ijetter. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stately Liigar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes; 
In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate. 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck, down to the Ratton-kcy, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW nKic:. 
Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't; 
The Lord be thankit that we've tint the gate o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 



THE BRIGS OF A YR. 27 



O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 

Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves : 

Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest, 

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; 

Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 

The cra/'d creations of misguided whim; 

P'orms might be worshippVl on the bended knee, 

And still the second dread command be free, 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 

Of any mason reptile, l^ird, or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited moid<ish race, 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 

Or cuifs of later limes, wha held the notion. 

That sullen glot)m was sterling, true devotion; 

Fancies that our guid lirugh denies protection. 

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealins. 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Dailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; 
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ! 
Ye godly Councils wha hae iilest this town ; 
Ye godly I'rethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers: 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye Init here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your s])iriis groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration; 
And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain i)raid Scots hold forth a plain braid story 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet ovvre a pint, or in the Council-house; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless (Jentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country; 
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers, 
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damn'd new Brigs 
and Harbours ! 

NEW liKIC. 

Now baud you there ! faith ye'vc said enough, 
And niuckle niair than ye can mak to tlirough: 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kiltie : 



28 THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



But, under favour o' your langer lieard, 

Abuse o' Magistiates might vveel be spar'd : 

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 

I niu?t needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 

To mouth "a Citizen," a term o' scandal: 

Nae mair the Council waddles dtnvn the street, 

In all the jiomp of ignorant conceit; 

Men wha grew wise jiriggin owre hops an' raisins, 

Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. 

If haply Knowledge, on a ramlum tramp. 

Had shor'd tliem wi' a glinnner of his lamp, 

And \\ould to Common-sense for once betray'd them. 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 

What farther clishmaclaver might been said. 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had iilood to shed, 
No man can tell; but all before their sight 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown tlie glittering stream they featly danc'd; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd: 
They footed o'er the the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlan, thairm-insjiiring sage. 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore w ith Highland rage, 
Or when' they struck old Scotia's melting airs. 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler lir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with hner touch inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd. 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part. 
While simple melody ixnir'd moving on the >ieart. 

The (icnius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief, advanc'd in years; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; 
Then, crown'd with ilow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervitl-beaniing eye : 
All-chcering Plenty, \\\\.\\ her (lowing horn. 
Led yellow .\utumn wreath'd with nodding corn; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Ilospitalitv with cloudless brow; 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride. 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 



THE ORDINATION. 



20 



Learning ami Worth in equal measures trode' 

l<"rom simple Catrine, their long-lov'cl abode: 

Last, white-roh'il Peace, crovvn'd with a hazel wreath, 

To rustic Agriculture ilid ijetjueath 

The broken, irt)n instruments of death : 

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. 



THE ORDINATION. 



For sense, they little 
Tu please the mob, tli 

Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw. 

An' pour your creeshie nations; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations; 
Swilh to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak uji your stations; 
Then atT to Begbie's in a raw, 

Au' pour divine libations 

tor joy this day. 

Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggie I,au<ler; 
But 01i|ihant aft made her yell, 

An' Russel sair misca'd her; , 

Tills day iM'Kinlay takes the (lail, 

An' he's the boy will blautl her! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, . 

An' set the bairns to daud her 

Wi' .iirt tills day. 

Mak haste an' tum king I)a\id owre. 

An' lilt wi' holy cluigor: 
O' double verse come gic us four. 

An' sl^irl up the Bangor : 
Tlii> day the Kirk kiel;s up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. 
For Heresy is in her jiow'r, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it off wi' vigour, 
Mow graceless Ham leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger: 
Or I'hineas drv)ve the murdering blade, 

Wi' whorc-alihorriiig rigour; 
Or /.ipporah, the scauldin jad, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

r th' Inn that day. 



07ue to/riigal lleavn — 
ey hide the little giv'n. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him tlown wi' caution, 
That Stijiend is a carnal weed 

He takes but for tlie fashion; 
An' gie him o'er the tlock, to feed, 

And punish each transgression; 
Es|iecial, rams tiiat cross the breetl, 

Cie them sulticient threshin, 

vSpare them nae day. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

/Vn' toss thy horns fu' canty; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 

liecause thy pasture's scanty; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall lill thy crib in jilenty, 
An' runts o' grace the jiick an' wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty. 

But ilka day. 

Nae mnir by Babel streams we'll weep. 

To think u]ion our Zion; 
And hing our liddles up to sleep, 

Like b;U)y-clouts a-drvin : 
Come, screw tlie ]iegs wi' tuiiefu' cheep, 

And o'er the thairnis be tr\iii; 
Oh rare ! to see our elbucks wlieep, 

And a' like lamb-lails fly in 

Fu' fast this day ! 

Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Has slior'd the Kirk's undoin, 
As lately h'enwick, sair forfairn, 

Has jiroven to his ruin: 
Our Patron, honest man ! Cdencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin; 
And like a godly, elect bairn. 

He's wal'd us out a true ane. 

And sound this day 



30 



THE CALF. 



Now Robinson harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab fur ever : 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver; 
Or to the Netherton repair. 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Aft-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a vvinkin baudrons : 
And ay he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons; 
But now his Honour maun detach, 

\Vi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein thro' the city; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty ! 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face. 

Grunts out some Latin ditty; 
And Common-sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 



But there's Morality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin onions ! 
Now there, they're packed aff to hell, 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter: 
M'Kinlay, Russel are the boys 

That heresy can torture; 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse. 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 
And here's, for a conclusion, 

To every New Light mother's son. 
From this time forth, Confusion: 

If mair they deave us wi' their din. 
Or Patronage intrusion. 

We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

, We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVENS, ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2. 

" And ye shall go forth, and grow up as calves of the stall." 



Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Tho' Heretics may laugh; 
For instance, there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

And should some Patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forliid it, ev'ry heavenly Pov\'er, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 



Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your Imt-and-ben adorns. 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And, in your lug, most reverend James, 
To hear you rrar and rowte. 

Few men o' sense w ill doubt your claims 
To rank amang the Nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock ! " 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O Prince ! O Chief of matiy throned Pow'rs, 
That led ih' embattled Seraphim to wat 

Milton. 



O Tiiou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Aukl Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavein grim an' sootie, 

Clos'd under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor damned bodies be; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

Ev'n to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; 
Far kend an' noted is thy name; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame. 

Thou travels far; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd Tempest 
flyin, 

Tirlin the kirks; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin. 

Unseen thou luiks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray; 
Or where auld, ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon, 
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you 
bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone; 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, 

Wi' heavy groan. 



Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough; 
Ye, like a rash-l)uss, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick, 
quaick, 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd Hke a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags. 
They skim the muiis, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre hovvkit dead. 

Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
I\Iay plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 

By witching skill; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an' 

crouse ; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 
Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord, 
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction, 
An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 



An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight tliat late an' drunk is: 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous nionkies 

Delude liis eyes, 
Till in some miry slough lie sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Masons' mystic word an' grip. 
In storms an' tempests rai>e you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell. 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard. 
When youtlifu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flo\\'ry s\^■aird, 

In shady i)ow'r : 

Then you, ye anld, snick-drawing dog ! 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

An' plav'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be you fa!) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reckit duds, an' reestit gizz. 
Ye did present your sinoutie phiz, 
'Mang better folk, 



An' sklented on the man of Uzz 
Your spitefu' joke ! 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall. 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall', 
While scabs an' l>lotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lo\\s'd his ili-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava? 

But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares an' fctchin fierce, 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

.\n' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, 
A certain Bardie's rantin, tlrinkin, 
Some luckless liour will sentl him linkin. 

To your black jiit; 
But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin. 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Niclue-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might— 1 dinna ken — ' 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, 
THE AUi'HOR'S ONLY PEF YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 



As Mailie, an' her Iambs thegither. 
Was ae day nibliling on the tether, 
I'pon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' uwre she warsl'd in the ditch; 
There, groaning, dying, slie did lie. 
When Ilughoc he cam doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted ban's. 
Poor Ilughoc like a siaiue slaii's; 
lie saw hcrdavs were near hand ended. 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide, hwt naething sp.dv. 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 



" O thou, whase lamentable face 
A]-)]iears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

"Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As nmckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked slrings o hemp or hair! 
But ca' them out ti) park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 



OF POOR MAIL IE. 



33 



" Tell him, he was a Master kin', 
An' ay was guiil to me an' mine; 
iVn' ninv iny dvins; charge I gie him, 
My helpless iambs, 1 trust them \\ i' him. 

" t), bid him sa\e their harmless lives, 
Fraedogs, an' tods, an' Imtciiers' knives ! 
ISut gie them guid cow-milk tJieir till, 
Till they be lit to feml themsel : 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
VV>' teats o' hay an' ripps o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like tiieir great I''orbears, 
I'\)r monie a year come thro' the siieers; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're 
dead. 

" My poor toojidamb, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An', if he live to be a beast. 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 



An' warn him, what I winna name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither irceniseless, graceless brutes. 

" An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude l^eej) thee frae a tether string! 
O, may tliou ne'er forgatiier up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop; 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, 
Wi' siiee|i o' credit like lliysel ! 

" And now, my bairns, w i' my last 
breath 
I Ica'e my !)lessin wi' yon baith : 
An' when you think ujxj' your Mither, 
Mind to be kind to anc anither. 

" Now, honest Ilughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my Master a' my tale; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An', for thy pains,thou'se get my blether." 

This said, poor MaiHc turn'd her 
head. 
An' clos'd her een amang the dead I 



POOR MAILIE'S ICLEGY. 



L.\MKNr in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; 
Our Ikirdie's fate is at a close. 

Past a' remead; 
The last, sad cape-stane of his woes; 

Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no tlie loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae l)ilter draw tlie tear. 
Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed: 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear. 

In Maihe dead. 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; 
A lang half-mile she could descry hiin; 
Wi' kintlly bleat, when she did spy him. 

She ran v\i' speed : 
A friend mairfaithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' Could behave hersel wi'mense; 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence. 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the sj^ence 
.Sin' Mailie's dead. 



Or, if he wanders up the howe. 

Her living image in her yowe 

Conies l)leating to him, owre the knowe, 

For ])its o' liread; 
An' down the briny jjcarls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips; 

For her forbears were brought in ships, 

Frae yont the i'weed : 
A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie's dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape 1 
It maks guid fellows grin an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread; 
.^n' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

l'\)r Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye Bards on bonie Doon 1 

An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 

Come, join the melancholious croon 

()' Roliin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie's dead ! 



34 



TO JAMES SMITH. 



TO JAMES SMITH. 



Fricndsliip ! mysifrions cement of ike soul f 
Siveet'ner of Life, and solder of Society ! 
I oiue thee much. Blair. 



Dear Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts; 
P"or ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon. 
And ev'ry star that blinks abooii, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Mail- taen I'm \\i' you. 

That auld, capricious carlin. Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature. 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first j)lan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 

She's wrote, " 'fhe Man." 

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme. 
My barmie noddle's working prime. 
My fancie yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin? 

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' 

cash; 
Some rhyme to court the contra clash. 

An' raise a din; 
For me, an aim I never fash; 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot. 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

An' damm'd my fortune to the groat; 

But, in requit, 
Has blest nie with a random shot 

O' countra wit. 



This while my notion's taen a sklent. 
To try my fate in guid, black prcnt ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent. 

Something cries, " Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

"There's ither poets, much your betters. 
Far seen in (Ireek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their 
debtors, 

A' future ages; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, 
Their unknown pages." 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth Til rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling ihrang. 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the briltle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why c Death begin a tale? 

just now we're living sound an' l.ale; 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave Care o'er side ! 
And large, before Enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak the tide. 

This life, sae far's I understand, 

Is a' enchanted fairy-land. 

Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand. 

Dance by fu' light. 



TO JAMES SMITH. 



35 



The magic wand then let us wield : 
For, ance that five-an'-foity's speel'd, 
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, 

Wi' wriiikl'd face, 
Comes hoistin, liirplin owre the field, 

Wi' cieepin pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the 

gloamin, 

Then fareweel vacant careless roamin; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin, 

An' social noise; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 
The joy of joys ! 

O life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away. 
Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning. 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near. 

Among the leaves : 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew lirace; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race. 

And seize the prey; 
Then canie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humlile servan', 
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin, 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

They zig-zag on; 
Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin, 

They aften groan. 



Alas! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is Fortune's lickle Luna waning? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

I^et's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 

And kneel, " Ye Fow'rs ! " and warm 

implore, 
"Tho' I should wander Terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Ay rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreeping roasts to countra Lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards; 
Gie fine braw claes to fuie Life-guards, 

And Maids of Honour; 
And yill an' whisky gie to Cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

" A Title, Dempster merits it; 

A Garter gie to Willie Pitt; 

Gie Wealth to same be-ledger'd Cit, 

In cent per cent; 
But gie me real, sterling W^it, 

And I'm content. 

" While Ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face. 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose; 
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may; 
Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives, a dyke ! 



Nae liair-braiii'd sentiiiunital traces, 
In your uiiletter'il, iiamele>s faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; 

Nae ferly the' ye do despise 

The hairum-scairum, lam-stam boys, 



The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 
Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall baud me there- 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony v here — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang. 
Content with You to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 

Thoughts, ivords, and deeds, the Statute hlavies mith reason ; 
But sjtrely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason. 

[On reading, in tVe public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, 
the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day 
Levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] 



GuiD-MoRNiN to your Majesty ! 

May heaven augment yuur blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see; 

A humble Bardie wishes ! 
My Bardship here, at your Levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang thae Birth-day dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're comphmented thrang, 

By mony a lord an' lady; 
" God save the King ! " 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay; 
The Poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 

For me ! before a Monarch's face, 

Ev'n (hgre I winna flatter; 
For neither pension, post, nor place. 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on Your Grace, 

Your Kingship to bespatter; 
There's monie waur been o' the Race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than You this day. 



'Tis very true, my sovereign King, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But Facts are cheels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your Royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation; 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted Ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fiU'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece 

Till she has scarce a tester; 
For me, thank God, my life-'s a lease 

Nae bargain wearing faster. 
Or, faith ! I fear that with the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

r the craft some day. 



A DREAM. 



37 



I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt. 

An' lessen a' your charges; 
But, God's sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonie barges 

An' boats this day. 

^idieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection; 
An' may Ye rax Corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true aft'ection. 
To pay your Queen, with due respect. 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great Birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please Ye, 
Will Ye accept a compliment 

A simple Poet gies Ye? 
Thae bonny bairntime Heav'n has lent. 

Still higher may they heeze Ye 
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release Ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young Potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

An' curse your folly sairly. 
That ere ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or ratti'd dice wi' Charlie, 
By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
Sae, ye may doucely fill a Throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 



There, Him ^t- A?'rc->urt wha shone, 
Few better were or b'-aver; 

And yet, wi' funiiy, quee- Sir John, 
He was an unco shaver 

For monie ? day. 

For you, right rev'rend.Osnab''r.q;, 

Name sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribban at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the Keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. 

Or, troth! ye'U stain the Mitre 
Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her; 
A glorious galley, stem and stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter. 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 

An', large upon her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a', 

Ye royal Lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa', 

For Kings are unco scant ay; 
An' German Gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautet; 
But, e'er the course o' life be through. 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



38 



THE VISION. 



THE VISION. 



DUAN FIRST. 



The sun had clos'cl the winter day, 
The Curlers quat their roarin play, 
An' hunger'd Maukin taeii her May 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Vv'hare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-trce 
The lee-lang day had tired me; 
And whan the day liad clos'd his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-jirovoking smeek. 

The auld, clay biggin; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 

1 backward mus'd on wastetl time. 

How I had spent my youthfu' ]irime. 

An' done nac-lhing, 
But stringin blethers up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I niiglu, by this, hae led a market. 
Or strutteil in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account : 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half- 
sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof. 
To swear by a' yon starry roof. 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 



When click ! the string the snick did 

draw; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa'; 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw. 

Come full in sight. 

Ve need na doubt, I held my whisht; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; 
I glowr'd as eerie's Fd been dusht 

In some wild glen; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she 
blusht. 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token; 
And come to stop these reckless vows, 

Would soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace," 
W'as strongly marked in her face; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with Honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonie Jean 

Could only peer it; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, 
threw 

A lustre grand; 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view 

A well-known Land. 



THE VTSTON. 



39 



Here, rivers in tlio sea were lost; 
There, i-.ionntains to tlie skies were tost : 
Mere, tumhlinj^ billows niark'd the eoast 

With surginj^ foam; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fctch'd 

floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds, 
Auld hermit Ayr slaw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore; 
And many a lesser torrent sends, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient liorouj^h rear'd her head; 

Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a Race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately t^w'r or palace fair, 

Or ruins ]icndent in the air, 

Bold stems of Heroes, here and there, 

1 could discern; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to 
dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 

To see a Race heroic wheel. 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their Suthron foes. 



His Country's Sax'ioi'r, mark him 

well I 
Bold Richardton's heroic swell; 
The Chief on Sark who glorious fell, 

In high command; 
And He whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sccplr'd Ficlish shade 
.Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
1 niark'd a martial Race, ]H)urlray'd 

In colours strong; 
Bold, soldicr-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove, 
Near many a herniit-fancy'd cove, 
(I'it haunts for Iriendship or for Love 

In musing mood,) 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned Sire and Son I saw, 
'i'o Nature's Clod and Nature's law 

They gave their lore : 
'I'his, all its source ami end to draw; 

That, to adore. 

Brydon's brave Ward I well could spy. 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on. 
Where many a Patriot name on high, 

And Hero shone. 



DUAN SF-COND. 



With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
T vicw'd the heavenly-seeming Fair; 
A whisp'ring throb tlid witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
".Vhen with an elder Sister's air 

She did me greet. 

' All hail ! my own inspired Bard ! 
In me thy native Muse rej^ard ! 
Nor longer mourn ihy fate is hard. 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 



" Know, the great Genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command. 

Harmoniously, 
As Arts or Arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia's Race among them share; 
Some fire the .Soldier on to dare; 
Some rouse the Patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the Bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 



40 



THE VISION. 



" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal Senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest Patriot lore. 

And grace the hand. 

"And when the Bard, or hoary Sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild. Poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

TuU on the eye. 

" Hence, Fullarton, the brave and young; 
Hence, Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence, sweet harmonious Bealtie sung 

His ' Minstrel lays '; 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The Sceptic's bays. 

"To lower order j are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

"When yellow waves the heavy giain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly 

rein; 
Some teach to meliorate the j^lain 

With tillage-skill; 
And some instruct the Shepherd-train, 

JJlythe o'er the hill. 

"Some hint the Lover's harmless wile; 
Some grace the Maiden's artless smile; 
Some soothe the Lah'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains. 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some, bounded to a district-space. 
Explore at large Man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 



"Of these am I — Coila my name; 
And this district as mine I claim. 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of 
fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame, 
Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze. 

Fond, on thy little early ways. 

Thy rudely-caroU'd, chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the North his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep green-mantl'd Earth 
Warm-cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the Reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys. 

And lonely stalk. 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful Love, warm-blushing 

strong. 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 
To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By Passion driven; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID. 



41 



"I taught thy manners-jiainting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become thy friends. 

"Thou canst not learn, nor can I show. 
To paint with Thomson's landscape- 
glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With Shenstone's art; 
Or pour, with Cray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

"Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows; 

Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Vet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adowu the glade. 



"Then never murmur nor repine; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; 
And trust me, not Ptjtosi's mine. 

Nor King's regard. 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard. 



" To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With Soul erect; 
And trust, the Universal Flan 

Will all protect. 

" And wear thou this " ^ — • she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head: 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY 
RIGHTEOUS. 

My soil, these jnnxims make a rule. 

And lump them aye thegither ; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither: ' 

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight. 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er afelloiv-creature slight 

For random Jits o' daffin. 

SuLOMON. — Eccles. vii. 16. 



O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ve've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your Neebour's fauts and follv ! 
W'hase Ijfe is like aweel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water, 
The heapet hap]ier's ebbing still. 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable Core, 

As counsel for ])oor mortals. 
That frequent ]iassd(iuce Wisdom's door. 

For glaikit Folly's portals; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes. 

Would here propone defences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes. 

Their failings and mischances. 



Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer. 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What niaks the mighty differ; 
Discount \\hat scant occasion gave 

That ])urity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair tlian a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

(iies now and then a walloj). 
What raging must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right on ye scud your sea-way; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 

It makes an unco leeway. 



42 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 



See Social life and Clee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinkiiij^, 
Till, quite transniugrify'd, they're grown 

Debauchery and L)rinking: 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces. 
Before you gie poor f'railty names. 

Suppose a change o' cases; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me \\hisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 



Then gently scan your brother Man, 

Still gentler sister Woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a Uennin wrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark. 

The moving Why they do it; 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perliaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord its various tone, 

Each spring its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 



An honest inait's the noblest ivork of God. — Pope, 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil? 
Or great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel? 
Or Robinson again grown weel. 

To preach an' read? 
" Na, waur than a' ! " cries ilka chiel, 

"Tarn Samson's dead !" 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, 
An' cleedher bairns, man, wife, an' wean. 

In mourning weed; 
To Death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

The Brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel. 

Like ony bead; 
Death's gicn the Lodge an unco devel, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the Curlers flock 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock, 

Tam Samson's dead ? 



He was the king o' a' the Core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need; 
But now he lags on Death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately Sawmont sail, 
And Trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And Eels weel kend for souple tail. 

And Ceds for greed, 
Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a'; 

Ye cootie Moorcocks, cvousely craw; 

Ye Maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread; 
Your mortal Fae is now aw a', 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin graitli adorn'd. 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae coxiples freed; 
But, Och ! he gaed and ne'eV return 'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 



43 



In vnin auld age his body batters; 
In vain tiie gout his ancles fetters; 
In vain the burns came down hke waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, grectin, clatters, 

" Tani Samson's dead ! " 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit. 
An' ay the tither shot he thunipit, 
Till coward Death behind him jumpit 

Wi' deadly fcide; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed; 
"Lord, five!" he cry'd, an' owre did 
stagger; 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming 
blether, 

" Tam Samson's dead ! " 

There, low he lies, in lasting rest; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 



Some spitefu' nuiirfowl bigs her nest, 
To hatch and breed; 

Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave. 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three vollies let his niem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead. 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Ileav'n rest hi.: saul, whare'er he be! 
Is th' wish ()' mony mae than me: 
He had twa faults, or maybe three, 

Yet what remead? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-wom clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots, "spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'U mend or ye win near him. 

vv.iK contra. 

Clo, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, 
Tc'l ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin, 
For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleggullie, 

Tam Samson's livin ! 



44 



HALLOWEEN. 



HALLOWEEN.! 



[The following Poem will by many readers be well enough understood; but for the sake of those 
who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes 
are added to give soni': account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with 
prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying inio futurity makes a 
striking part of the history of human nature, in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may 
be some entertainment to a philosophic mind if any such should honour the Author with a perusal, 
to see the remains of it, among the more unenlightened in our own. R. B.] 

Yes! let the rich dcridf^ the proud disdain. 
The simple pleasures of the lowly *rain ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 



Upon that night, when Faiiies light 

On Cassilis Downans " dance, 
Or owre the lays, in sjiiendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance; 
Or for Ct)lean the rout is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams; 
There, uj) the Cove,'^ to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night; 

Amang the boi^e, winding laanks, 

^Vhere Doon rins, wiinplin, clear. 
Where Bruce'' ance rul'd the martial 
ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear. 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

'I'ogcthcr did convene. 
To burn llieir nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 



The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're tine; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kvlhe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin: 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs. 

Gar lasse's hearts gang stariin 

Whyles fast at night. 



Then, first an' foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their stocks* maun a' be sought ance: 
They steek their een, an' grape, an' wale, 

For muckle anes, an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift. 

An' wander'd thro' the Bi)w-kail, 
An' ])()u't, for \\ant o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



• l.s thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad 
on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are i.ald on that 
night to hold a grand anniversary. R. 15. 

- Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the tinclent seat of the 
Earls of Cassilis. R. B. 

' A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis 
Downans, is famed in country story for being a favorite haunt of fairies. R. B. 

■• The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, 
were Earls of Carrick. R. I?. 

'■ The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out 
hand in hand, with eyes shut, and jmll the first they meet with. Its being big or little, straight or 
crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells — the husband or 
wife. If any^'ird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune: and the t^ste of the 
custock, that is the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, 
the stems, or to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere abovi; the 
head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into thi.' house are, 
according to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question. R. B. 



HALLOWEEN. 



45 



Tlicn, slrau}i;lit i)r crooked, yird or n.ine, 

'I'liey roar an' cry a' thrnu'tlier; 
The vera wee ihinj^s, tothlliii, riii, 

\Vi' stocks out-owre their shouther; 
An' gif the custocks sweet or sour, 

Wi* joetelegs tliey taste tlieni; 
Syne coziely, ahooii tlie door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses slaw frac 'mang them a' 

To ]H)u their stalks o' corn; ^ 
But Rah slips out, an' jinks about, 

Hehiiit the nuickle thorn : 
He grip|K't Nelly hard an' fast; 

Loud skiiTd a' the lasses; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kiutiin i' the fause-housc'^ 
Wi' him that niglit. 

The auld guiduife's wecl-hoordit nils'* 

Are round an' round divided, 
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, coulhie, side iiy side, 

An' burn thegilher trindy; 
Some start awa, wi' saucy pride. 

An' jump oul-owre the chimlic 

l'"u' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e; 

Wha 'twas, she wadiia tell ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me. 

She says in to hersel : 
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him. 

As they wad never mair ]wrt; 
Till fuff ! he started up the luin, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 
/ To see't that night. 



I'oor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runl, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie, 
An' Mary, nae iU)ul)t, took the drunt, 

Tt) be compar'd to Willie: 
Mall's nit lap out, wi' pritlefu' fling, 

An' her ain lit it brunt it; 
While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing, 

'Iwas just the way he wanled 
To be that night. 

Nell had the fause-housc in her min', 

She pits hersel an' Rob in; 
In loving blee/.e they sweetly join, 

I'ill white in ase they're sobbin: 
Nell's heart was dancin at the view; 

She whisper'd Rol) to leuk for't : 
Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't. 

Unseen that night. 

Hut Merran sat beliint their backs, 

lier thoughts on /\ndrew Hell; 
She lea'es them gasliin at their cracks, 

An' slijjs out by lierscl : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

i\vC to the kiln she goes then. 
An' darklins grapit for the bauks. 

And in the blue-clue '' throws then, 
Right fear't that night 

An' aye she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
'I'ill something held within the pat, 

Cluid Lord! but she was quaukin! 
Ikit whether 'twas the Deil himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew IJell, 

She did na wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 



' They go to the barn-yard and pull c.nch, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third 
stalk wants the t(tp-f>ickle., that is, ilic Rrain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come 
to the marriaj;e-bcd anything but a maid. R. B. 

' When the corn is in a doubtful state, it being too green, or wet, the stack-bnilder, by means 
of old limber, &c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest 
exposed to the wind : this he calls a Faitse-hotise. R. 15. 

•* Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and the lass to each particular nut, 
as they lay them in the fire; and accordingly .is they burn i|iiietly together, or start from beside 
one another, the co\irse and issue of the courtship will be. R. B. 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, 
all alone, to the kiln, and d irkling, throw inlo the pot :i clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue 
off the old one; and towards the latter end something will hold the threa<l; demand /KAcj hands f 
i.e., who holds? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and 
surname of your future spouse. R. B. 



46 



HALLOWEEN. 



Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go \vi' me, Grannie? 
" I'll eat the apjile ' at the glass, 

" I gat frae uncle Johnie : " 
She fufift her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin. 
She nolic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

"Ye little Skelpie-linnner's face! 

" I daur you try sic sportin, 
" As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

" For him to spae your fortune? 
*' Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

"Great cause ye hae to fear it; 
" For nionie a ane has got a fright, 

"An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret, 

" On sic a night. 

" Ae Hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

" I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
" I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

" I was na past fyfteen : 
"The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

"An' stuff was unco' green; 
"An' ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

" An' just on Halloween 

" It fell that night. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

"A clever, sturdy fallow; 
" His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

"That liv'd in Achmacalla; 
*' He gat hemp-seed," I mind it weel, 

"An' he made unco light o't; 
" But monie a day was by hiinsel, 

" He was sae sairly frighted 

" That vera night." 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 
An' he swoor l^y his conscience, 

That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; 
For it was a' but nonsense : 



The auld guidman raught down the pock, 
An' out a handfu' gied him; 

Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 
Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
An' try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something stiirtin; 
The graip he for a harrow taks. 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
" An' her that is to be my lass, 

" Come after me an' draw thee 

" As fast this night." 

He whisfl'd up Lord Lenox' march. 

To keep his courage cheary ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fiey'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek. 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout. 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld come rinnin out. 

An' hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop! she trotted thro' them a'; 

An' wha was it but Cruniphie 
Asteer that night ! 

Meg fain ^A■ad to the barn gaen 

To winn three ■\\echts o' naething; ' 
But for to meet the Deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the Herd a pickle nits. 

And twa red-cheekit apples. 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tam Kipples 
That vera night. 



1 Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say 
you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion to be will be seen in 
the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder. R. B. 

- Steal out unperceived and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can 
conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then, " Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-sEed,. I saw 
thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee." Look over your 
left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked in the attitude of pulling 
hemp. Some traditions say, " come .after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case 
it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, " come after me and harrow thee." R. B. 

3 This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to the barn and 



HALLOWEEN. 



47 



She turns the key, wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owie the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters; 
A ration rattl'd up the wa', 

An' she cry'd, Lord preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd \vi' zeal an' fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice; 

They hecht him some line braw ane; 
It chanced the stack he faddom't thrice^ 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

P'or some black, grousome Carlin ; 
An' K)Ot a wince, an' drew a stioke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 

Aff's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As cantie as a kittlin : 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws. 

She gat a fearfu' settlin ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn. 

An' owre the hill gaed sciievin, 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,''' 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays. 
As thro' the glen it wimpl't; 

Whyles round a rocky scar it strays; 
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; 



Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; 

Whyles cookil underneath the braes, 
Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brachens on the brae, 

IJetvveen her an' the moon. 
The Deil, or else an outler Quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool; 

Near lav'rock height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three'* are ranged; 
And ev'ry time great care is laen, 

To see them (luly changed: 
Auid uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar's-year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 

lie heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary; 
And unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

'J'heir sports ^\■ere cheap and cheary; 
Till butter'd So'ns,'' wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt. 

They parted aff careerin 

F'u' blythe that night. 



open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about 
to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in 
winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a wccht, and go through all the 
altitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three limes; and the third time an 
apparition \<'ill pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the 
figure in question and the appearance or retinue marking the employment or station in life. R. B. 

1 Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bcnr-siack, and fathom it three times round. 
The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal 
yoke-fellow. R. B. 

2 You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell) , to a south running spring or rivulet, where 
" three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang 
your wet .sleeve before it to dry. I.ie awake, and somewhere near midnight an apparition, having 
the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the 
other side o' it. R. B. 

^ Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in the other, and leave the third empty, 
blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the 
left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of 
matrimony a maid; if the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells with equal certainty 
no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is 
altered. R. B. 

• Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper. R. B. 



48 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 



KECITATIVO. 



Whkn lyait leaves beslrow tlie yircl, 
Or, wavering like the liauckie bird, 

Bedim caiild lH)reas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive \^i' bitter skyte. 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreucli drest; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies, 
III Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
- To drink their orra daddies : 
\Vi' ([uafling and laughing. 

They ranted and ihey sang; 
Wi' jumping and thumping. 
The verra girdle rang. 



Tune • 



First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd \^ i' mealy bags. 

And knapsack a' in order; 
His doxy lay \\ithin his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger; 
An' aye he gies tlie towsie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab. 
Just like an aimious dish; 

Ilk smack still, did crack still. 

Just like a cadger's whip. 
Then staggering, and swaggering, 
He roar'd this ditty up — 



' ScIJier's Joy." 

I AM a son of Mars, w ho have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

!My 'prentiship I pass'd where my leader brealh'd his last. 
When the liloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; 
I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd. 
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb : 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as ha]ipy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home; 
WTien the t'other bag I sell, and the t'other bottle tell, 
1 could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. 



RKCITATIVO. 



He ended; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore : 



A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 
He skirl'd out encore ! 

But up arose the martial chuck, 
And laid the loud uproar. 



Tune — " Soldier Laddie." 

I ONCE was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in jiroper young men; 
Some one of a troo]) of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodgcr laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported 1 was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, Sic. 

But the godly old chaplain left liim in the lurch. 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church; 
He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
Twas then 1 prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for a husband I got; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till 1 met my old l)oy at a Cunningliam fair; 
His rags regimental tliey flutter'd so gaudy. 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cu[> or a song; 

But whilst with both hands I can liold the glass steady. 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de ial, &c. 



KKCITATIVO. 



Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk 
Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie; 

They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, 
Between themselves they were sae bizzy j 



At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, 
He stoilered up an' made a face; 

Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzy, 
Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace 



5° 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



Tune — "Aiihi Syr Symon." 
Sir Wisdom's a fool when lie's fou, 

Sir Knave is a fool in a session; 
He's there l:>ut a 'prentice I trow, 

Bat 1 am a fool liy profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And 1 held awa to the school; 

1 fear 1 my talent niisteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool? 

For drink I would venture my neck; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft; 
But what could ye other expect, 

Of ane that's avowedly daft? 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and ciuafBiig; 

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naei)ody name wi' a jeer; 

There's ev'n, I'm tauld, i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the I'remier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob; 

He rails at our mountebank squad — 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell. 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry; 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude Lord, is far daftcr than I. 

KECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pursie she had hooketl, 
/ nd had in monie a well been dooked; 
lier dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her biaw John Mighlandman : 



Tune — "O, an ye ivcrc dead, Gin'dmaiu 

A Hnuii.ANi) l.id my love was born. 
The La«l:in' laws he held in scorn : 
But he still \\.->s faithfu' to his clan, 
My ga'lant braw John Mighlandman. 



CHORUS. 

Sing, hey, my braw John Highland- 
man ! 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's no a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid. 
And gude claymore down by his side. 
The ladies' hearts he ditl Irejian, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

-Sing, hey, iS;c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay; 
For a Lawlan' face he feareil nane, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea. 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adow n my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast; 
My curse upon them every ane, 
They've hang'd my braw John High- 
landman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

RKCITATIVO. 

A pigmy Scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reached nae higher), 
Had hol'l his hcartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on tire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward ee, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set afi", wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 



THE yOLL Y BEGGARS. 



5^ 



Tune — " Whis'.le owrc the la^ie o't." 
Let me ryke up lo dij^ht that tear, 
And go wi' mo and l)e my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle o\\ re the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade. 
And a' the tunes that e'er I piay'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid. 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And oh! sae nicely's we will fare; 
We'll house about, till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

Sae merrily's the banes we'll i^yke, 
And sun oursels ai)out the dyke, 
And at our leisure, when ye like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

•I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And wliile I kiltie hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms. 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

RFXITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 
As well as poor Gut-scraper; 

He taks the liddler l)y the beard, 
And draws a roosty rapier — 

He swoor, by a' was swearing worth, 

To sjiit'liim like pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly ee, \>v.ox tweedle-dee 

Upon ills hunkers bended, 
And piay'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the ([uarrcl ended. 

But tho' his litlle heart did grieve 
When round the tinkler prest her, 

He feigned to sniitle in his sleeve, 
When thus the CairJ address'd her : 



Tune — " Clout the Cauldron." 
My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain theysearch'd.whenoff I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'eu the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

VVi' a' his noise and cap'rin', 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron; 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp. 

And by that dear Kilbagie, 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That piay'd a dame a shavie. 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Thio' linipin' wi' the spavie. 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

And shor'd Iheni Dainty Davie. 
O boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad. 

Nor want but — when he thirsted j 
He hated not but — to be sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested 
His sang that night. 



52 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



Tune — " For a that, and a' thai." 
I AM a bard of no regard 

Wi' gentlefolks, an' a' that; 
But rionier-like, the glowran byke, 

P'rae town to town I draw that. 

CHOUUS. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as meikle's a' that; 

I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 
I've wife eneugh for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 

Castalia's burn, an' a' that; 
But there it streams, and richly reams. 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Great love I I^ear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, an' a' that; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

In ra)5tures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love, an' a' that; 

But for how lang the file may stang. 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put nie daft, 
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that; 

But clear your decks, and here's the 
sex ! 
I like the jads for a' that. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as muckle's a' that. 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome till't, for a' that. 

KKriTATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They tonm'd tiieir ])ocks, an' pawn'd 

their duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lovvan drouth. 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang 
The poet did request, 



To lovvse his pack, an' wale a sang, 

A ballad o' the best; 
He, rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found them 

Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune — " yolly Mortals, fill your glasses^ 
Skk ! the smoking bow 1 before us, 

INIark our jovial ragged ring; 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing: 



A (ig for those by law "protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title? what is treasure? 

What is reputatioir's care? 
If we leatH a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where ! 

A Hg, &c. 

With the ready trick and fable. 
Round we wander all the day; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

A fig, &c. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove? 

Does the solder bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love? 

A fig, &c. 

Life is all a variorum. 

We regard not how it goes; 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 

A tig, &c. 

Here's to Inidgets, bags, anr] \vallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here'.'' our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 

A fig, &c. 



THE AULD FARMER'S NEW- YEAR SALUTATION. 



^Z 



THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTA- 
TION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED KlPrOP CORN TO HANSEI, IN THE NPAV YEAR. 



V Ginn New- Year I wish thee, Maftgic ! 
lae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
rho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' 
knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
rhou could hae gane like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

The' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
^n' thy auld hide's as white's a daisic, 
ve seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie, 

A honie gray : 
ie should been tight that daur't to raize 
thee, 

Ance in a day. 

rhou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
^ filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
\vl set wecl down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird; 
^n' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like onic bird. 

t's now some nine-nn'-twenty year, 
)in' thou was my giiid-father's meore; 
ie gicd me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
ho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

Vhcn firgt I gacd to woo my Jenny, 
'e then was tr jtlia wi' your minnic : 
ho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie. 

Ye ne'er was donsie; 
!ut hamely, lawie, f|uiet, an' cannie, 

\\\ unco sonsic. 

"hat day, ye pranc'd wi' mnckle pride, 
Vheii ye burc liamc my honie liride; 
.n' sweet an' grncefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
lylc-Stewart I could bragged wide. 

Fur sic a i)air. 



Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble. 
That day ye was a jinker noble 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

l'"ar, far iiehin'. 

When thou an' I were young and skcigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh. 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' 
skriegh 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow. 

For pith an' speed; 
I'ut cv'iy tail thou ]:>ay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

Tlie snia', droo]i-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Migiit aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 
liut sax Scotch miles thou try't their 
mettle. 

An' gart them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor s]nir, liut just a wattle 

O' saugli or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittic-lan', 

As e'er in tug or low was drawn ! 

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gnun, 

On guid March-weather, 
Ilae turn'd sax rood l)esidc our iian'. 

For days thcgithcr. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fctch't, an' 

filskit. 

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread al)rccd t'.iy weel-fill'd briskit, 

Wi' ])ith an' jiow'r, 
Till si)rilty kiu)wcs wad r.iir't and riskit, 

An' slypct owre. 



54 



TO A MOUSE. 



When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were 

deep, 
An' llirealen'd lal)our back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Ahoon tlie timnicr; 
I kcuM my Maggie wad na sleep 

I'or that, or siiiunur. 

In cart or car tliou never reestit; 

The steycst brae tlioii wail hae face't it ; 

Thou never lap, an' stcn't, and breastit, 

Then stood to biaw; 
r>ut just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now tliy bairn-time a': 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mac, I've sell'l awa, 

That thou hast nurst: 
They drew me tliretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 



Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought. 
An' « i' the w eary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, 1 thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' soniell;ing yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now pcrhajis thou's le^s desei viii. 
An' thy auld ilays may enil in slarvin, 

For my last fon, 
A heapit stimpart, FU reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
We'll toyte aliout wi' ane anilher; 
Wi' tentie care Fll Hit thy teihcr 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly ra.x your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST 
WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 



Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beaslie, 
O, what a ]ianic's in thy breastic ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase tlice, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle ! 

Fni truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion. 

Which makes thee startle, 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion. 

An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, M'hiles, but thou may thieve; 
Whr.t tlicn?]ioor beastie,thoumaun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
Fll ^;et a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething, tiow, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak Decemlier's winds ensuin, 

liaith snell an' keen ! 



Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
Y\n' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell. 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past. 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety drilih'.e, 

An' eranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In jiroviiig foresight may be vain: 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Ciang aft a-gley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 

l'"or promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! 
The ];)resent only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward east my c'e 

On ]n-ospects drear ! 
An' forward, Iho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear ! 



A WINTER NIGHT. 55 



A WINTER NIGHT. 

Poor naked ivrctches, •mhcrcsoe'cr you are, 
'I'lint l/i't/i- the pi-lling 0/ this pitiless storm ! 
tiflw sliiitl your Iwusi'iess /icmis, and unfed sides, 
i'oiir loop'd and luiiidmv'd rag^ediiess, defend yoii, 
I'rom seasons such as these f 

SllAKESI'KARIt. 

Wlli'.N biliiig l)orer\s, fell and doure, 
Sluir]) sliivers tliro' tlie lealloss hovv'r; 
When IMicebus gics a sluirl-liv'd glovv'r, 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-daik'ning thro' the llaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the stdrin the steejiles rocked, 
Poor Lalioiir sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, \vi' snawy wreeths up-choked, 

Wild-eddying swirl. 
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought nie on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha l>ide tliis brattle 

()' winter war. 
And thro' the drift, di-ep-lairing, sprattlc, 

IJeneath a scar. 

Ilk hap]iing bird, woo, liclpless thing! 
Thnt, ill the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

Wiiat comes o' (hec? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chitlering win' 

An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n you on murd'iing errands (oil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes cxil'd. 
The blood-stain'tl roost, and sheep-c(jte spoil'd 

My heart forgets, 
While pilyless the tempest wild 

Sore on yuu beats. 

Now Pha'be, in her midnight reign. 
Dark niullTd, view'<l the dreary plain; 
Still crowding thoughts, a ])ensive train, 

Rose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, Solemn, stole — 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
"And freeze, thou bitter-l)iting frost! 
" Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
" Not all your rilge, as now, united shows 
"More liard unkindness, unrelenting, 
" Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
"Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows 1 
"See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
" Or mad Ambition's gory haiul, 
" Sending, liUe hk)od-hounds from the slip, 

" Woe, want, and murder o'er a land 1 
" Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 
"Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
" How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
"The parasite empoisoning her car, 
" With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
" I-ooks o'er proud property, extended wide; 
"And eyes the simjile rustic hind, 

" Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
"A creature of another kind, 
" Some coarser substance, unrelin'd, 
" Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. 

" 'Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
" With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 

"The pow'rs you proudly own? 
" Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
" Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

"To bless himself alone ! 
" Mark maiden-innocence a prey v 

"To love-pretending snares, 
" This boasted honour turns away, 
" Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
" Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
" Perhaps this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 
" She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
" And with a mother's feais shrinks at the rocking blast ! 

"Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
" Feci not a want but what yourselves create, 
"Think, for a moment, on liis wretched fate, 

" Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
" Ill-satislied keen nature's clam'roiis call, 

" Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
"While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
"Chill o'er his slumliers, piles the drifty heap! 
"Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
" Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
" Cuilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
" But shall thy legal rage pursue 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 



57 



"The wretch, already crushed low, 
"By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? 

"Affliction's sons arc brothers in distress; 

" A i)rother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! " 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind 

Thro' all His works abroad. 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. 



^^HILE winds fiae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 
\.wA bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 
And hing us owre the ingle, 
set me down, to pass the time, 
^nd spin a verse or tvva o' rhyme. 

In hamely, westlin jingle. 
\'hile frosty winds blaw in the drift, 
Ben to the chinila lug, 
grudge a wee the Great-folk's gift, 
That live sac bien an snug: 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side; 
But hanker and canker. 
To see their cursed pride. 

t*s hardly in a body's pow'r, 
b keep, at times, frae being sour, 
b see how things aie shar'd; 
low best o' chiels are whylcs in want, 
Vhile coofs on countless thousands rant. 
And kenaia how to wair't : 
ut, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 
Tho' we hac little gear, 
V'c'rc fit to win our daily bread. 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na, nor fear na," 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg; 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only but to beg. 

I'd lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 
^Tien banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, 
Is, doubtless, great distress ! 



January — [1784]. 

Yet then content would mak us blest; 
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has ay some cause to smile : 
And mind still, you'll fmd still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

What tho', like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hal'? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweejiing vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound,^ 
To see the coming year : 

On liraes when we ])Ieasc, then. 

We'll sit and sowth a tune; 
Syne rhyme tilTt, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when \\e hae done. 

It's no in titles nor in rank; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To jnirchase ]ieace and rest; 
It's no in making niuckle, mair: 
It's no in books, it's no in Icar, 

To make us truly blest: 



58 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 



If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast. 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy lang; 
The heart ay's the part ay, 

That makes us right or vvrang. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, 

Wi' never ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they o|)press ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 

Bailh careless, and fearless. 
Of either heav'n or hell ! 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here w ha sit, hae met wi' some, 

All's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth; 

They let us ken ouisel; 
Thev mak us see the naked truth. 
The real guid and ill. 
Tlio' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's w it there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'U find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! 

(To sav aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And'flatt'ry I detest) 
Thi^ life has joys for you and I; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover an' the frien'; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part. 

And I my darling Jean ! 



It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name : 

It heals me, it beets me. 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

O all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
O Thou, w hose very self art love ! 

Thou know 'st my wcirds sincere ! 
The life-blood sireaniiiig thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part. 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest. 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear! 
The smile of love, ihe friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had numher'd out my weary days, 

Mad it not been for you! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill; 
And oft a more endeaiing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

O, how that name insjiires my style ! 
The words come skelpin, rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine. 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin ovvre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp. 

Till ance he's fairly het; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp^ 
An rin an unco fit : 

IhU lest tlien, the beast then, 

Should rue his hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dight now 

His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT. 



59 



THE LAMENT, 



OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND's AMOUR. 



Alas .' hoiti oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And siveet Affection /r<7z/tf tke spring of woe ! 



THOU pale Orb, that sibnt shines, 
\Vhile care-untrmibled mortals sleep ! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep. 
How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked, distant hill: 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Reflected in the gurgling rill: 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still! 

Thou busy pow'r,Remembraiice, cease ! 
Ah! must the agonizing thrill 

Forever bar returning peace ! 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains. 

My sad, love-lorn lam:ntings claim; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains; 

Tu) fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith; the mutual flame; 

The oft attested Pow'rs above; 
The promis'd father's tender name: 

These >vere the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

I low have the raptur'd moments flown ! 
IIow h.ave I wish'd for fortune's charms. 

For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
And must I think it ! is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast? 
And does she heedless hear my groan? 

And is she ever, ever lost? 

Oh ! can she hear so base a heart, 

.So lost to honour, lost to truth, 



Home. 

As from the fondest lover part, 

The ]ilighted husband of her youth I 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will 
soothe. 
Her sorrows share, and make them 
less? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts em- 
ploy'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

The morn that warns th' approaching 
day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array. 

That I must sufier, Hngering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out \\ith care and grief. 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if 1 slumber. Fancy, chief, 

Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright: 
Ev'n day, all-bitter brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 




DESPONDENCY. 



OppressfJ witli ^rief, oppressed with care. 
A burden more than I can hear, 
I sit me down and sigh. 



Page 60 



DESPONDENCY. 



) ! thou liright Queen, who o'er th' 
expanse [sway ! 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless 
)ft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
>eneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 

To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance 
set! • 

Scenes, never, never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's \\eary vale I'll wander thro'; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 



AN ODE. 



Dppress'd with grief, oppress'd with 
care, 
burden more than I can bear, 
I set me down and sigh : 
3 life ! thou art a galling load, 
Uong a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view. 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
kVhat sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing. 

Must be my bitter doom; 

My woes here shall close ne'er, 

But with the closing tomb ! 

^appy, ye sons of busy life, 
iVho, equal to the l)ustling strife, 
No other view regard ! 
V'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
('et while the busy means are jily'd. 

They bring their own reward : 
/Vliilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
tieet ev'ry sad returning night, 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling. 

Forget each grief and pain; 
I, listless, yet restless, 

Find every prospect vain. 

low blest the Solitary's lot, 
Vho, all-forgetting, all-forgot. 

Within his humble cell, 
'he cavern wild with tangling roots, 
its o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 



Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfreqviented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint-collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to Heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky moment to improve. 
And just to sto[i, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those jileasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste. 
The Solitary can despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here, must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh ! enviable, early days, [maze. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's 

To cnre, to guilt unknown! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To fee the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your \\ish ! 
The Icisses, the crosses, - 

That active man engage ' 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim-declining age. 




DESPONDENCY. 



Oppressi'd witli ?rief, oppressed with care. 
A burden more than I can bear, 
I sit me down and sigh. 



Page 60 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



WINTER. 



A DIRGE. 



Ti[i': wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain docs l^law; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth, 

The hlindin<; sleet and snaw : 
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes 
down, 

And roars frae bank to brae : 
And i)ird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 



The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul 

My griefs it seems to join; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose might; 
scheme 

These woes of mine fulfd, 
Here, fnin, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy will ! 
Then all I want, (Oh ! do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny. 

Assist me to resign. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. 

Let not A mbiiion }nock their 7ise/nl toil. 
Their homely Joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear, ivith a disdainful smile. 
The short and simple annals of the Poor. 

Gray 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary i)ard his homage pays : 
With honest pride, I scorn each sellish end; 

My dearest nieeti, a friend's esteem and praise: 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's seriuester'd scene; 
The native feelings strong, tlie guileless ways; 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

Novem1)er chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 

The black'ning trains o' craws to tiicir repose: 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 



62 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY XIGHT. 

At length his hniely cot appears in view, 

Keneaih the shelter of an aged tree; 
Th" expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through 

To meet their Had, \\i' flichterin noise an" glee. 
His wee bit ingle, hlinkin bonilie. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wilie's smile. 
The lis|iing intant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service out, .amang the farmers roun'; 
Some ca' the ]ileugh. some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neehor town : 
Their eldest hoj^e, their Jennv, woman-grown. 

In youtht'u' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame. perhaps, to shew a braw new gown. 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfcign'd brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: 
The social liours, swift-wing'd. uiinotic'd tleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, \vi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the newj 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command. 

The younkei-s a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 

" An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's jiath ye gang astray. 

Implore His counsel and assisting might: 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright! " 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door. 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jennv's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
\Vi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 

While [enny hafflins is afraid to sjieak; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rakf . 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; 
A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 63 

Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 

'I'hc father cracks of horses, ])leughs, and kye. 
Tlic younj^ster's artless lieart c/erliows wi' joy, 

liul l)lale and laillifu', scarce can weel i)ehave; 
The nKjther, wi' a woman's v\ilcs, can spy 

What Miai;es the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; 
Weel-iileas'd to thiidv her bairn's respected like the lave. 

() happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond coni])are ! 
I've jiaced much tiiis weary, mortal round, ^ 

And sage experience bi(ls me this declare — 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly ])leasure spare, 

One cordial in this melanciioly vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 

In other's arms breathe out the tender talc, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart — 

A wretch! a villain ! lost to love and truth! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 
Curse on his i)erjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fonclling o'er their child? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ! 

But now the supper crowns their simple board. 

The healsome jjarritch, chief o' Scotia's food: 
The soupe their only Ilawkie does afford. 

That 'yont the halian snugly chows her cood; 
The dame brings f(jrth in complimentnl mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell. 
An' aft he's jjrest, an' aft he ca's it guid; 

The frugal wilie, garruUjus, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The chccrfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er, w i' ])a!riarchal grace. 

The big ha'-I!ible, ance his father's jjride : 
His bonnet rev'renlly is laid asifle. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care. 
And " Let us worship Cjod ! " he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: 
Perhaps I)undee's wild wariiling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; 



64 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; 

The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high; 
Or Moses bade eternal wartare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or how the royal IJard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic lire; 
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; 
How His first followers and servants sped; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 
And heard great Pab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear; 
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, excejit the heart ! 
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; 
And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homewanl all take off their sev'ral way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage |5ay, 

And proffer \\\> to Meav'n the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 



65 



Would, in Ihe way His wisdom sees the best, 
Fit them and for their little ones provide; 
But chielly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd al)road: 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

"An honest man's the noblest work of God: " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The eottage leaves the palace far behind; 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft tiie wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

F"or whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! 
Long may tiiy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 
And, Oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile; 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise tlie while. 
And stand a wall of lire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; 
Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride. 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patrit)t's (jod, j^eculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert. 

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 



When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare. 
One cv'ning as I wander'd forth 

Along the l)anks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Bega:i the rev'rend Sage; 
Dost thirst of wealth thy ste]5 constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage? 



Or, haply, j^rest with cares and woes, 
Too soon thou hast began 

To wander forth, with nie, to mourn 
The miseries of Man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-s]ireading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride; 
I've seen yon weary winter sun 

Twice forty times return : 
And ev'ry time has added jjroofs, 

That Man was made to mourn. 



66 



A PRAYER. 



P man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youihful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway; 

Licentious passions Ijurn; 
Which tenfold force give nature's law, 

That Man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported in his right, 
But see him on the edge of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
'^hen age and want. Oh ! ill-match'd 
pair ! 

Show Man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land 

Are wretched and forlorn; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn. 

That Man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frames ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 



See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil; 
And see his lordly fellow- worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave. 

By nature's law design'd. 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty, or scorn? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son. 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasures torn; 
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 



A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



O Thou unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour. 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun; 
As something, loudly in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that Thou hast form'd me 
With passions wild and strong; 



And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short. 

Or frailty stept aside. 
Do Thou, All (iood ! for such Thou art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have""err'd, 

No other plea I have. 
But, Thou art good; and Goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



LINES. 



67 



STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? 
Some drops of joy with diauglils of ill between: 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms; 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? 

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence ! " 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way; 
Again in folly's path might go astray; 

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man; 
Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter Heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

And still the tumult of the raging sea: 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. 

Those headlong furious passions to confine. 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be. 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; 
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, 

THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM 
WHERE HE SLEPT. 



O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 

I know Thou wilt me hear; 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare; 

To bless his little filial flock. 
And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears, 

O, bless her with a mother's joys, 
But spare a mother's tears ! 



Their hope, their stay, their darlingyouth, 
In manhood's dawning blush; 

Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 
Up to a parent's wish. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band. 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide Thou their steps alvvay. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driven. 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heaven ! 



68 



SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. 



THE FIRST PSALM. 



The ninn, in life wlierever plac'd, 

llatli happiness in store, 
Who walks nut in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore: 

Nor from the scat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

r>ut w ith humility and a\\e 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow; 



The fruitful top is spread on high, 
Antl lu-m the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And lil;e the rootless stubble tost, 
Jlefore the sweeping blast. 

For why? that God the good adore 
llath giv'n them jieace and rest. 

Hut hath decreed that \ncked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT 
ANGUISH. 



O Thou great Being ! what Thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure 1 am, that known to Thee 

Are all Thy works below. 

Thy creature here before Thee stands, 

All wretcheil and dislrest; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey Thy high behest. 



Suic, Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

l'"rom cruelty or wrath ! 
(), free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or cloL.e them fast in death ! 

lUit if I must alllicted be. 

To suit some \\ ise design ; 
Then, man my soul with lirm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. 



O Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling-place ! 

Before the mountains he.av'd their heads 
Beneath Thy forming liand, 

Before this jionderous globe itself 
Arose at Thy command; 

That ])o\v'r which rais'd and still uplK)lds 

This universal frnme. 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 
Which seem to us so vast, 



Ap])ear no more before Thy sight 
Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought; 
Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men, 

l\eturn ye into nought ! " 

Thou layest them, with all their cares. 

In everlasting sleep; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them ofT 

With overwhelming sweep ; 

They flourish like the morni^ig flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO RUIN. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 



69 



ON Tl'UNlNC. (INK IIOWN Willi 

Wkk, nioilost, i-iiinsi>n-tii)pi-(l llow'r, 
Tliou's mot WW in ;iii i-vil hour; 
For I maun iiush amanj^ the sloiire 

'I'hy slonilcr slcin. 
Ti) s[>are (hoc now is past my pow'r, 

'I'liou hoiiio }j;i'in. 

Alas! it's no thy iieohor swoci, 
Tlic bonio l.arlc, ('om[)anion n\i'i't ! 
licndinfj; thee 'uian}^ the dewy wi-et ! 

Wi' sprecUlM hroast. 
When upward-spvinf^iiiL;, lilytht-, to j^rccl 

'i'lic pur[)Unf^ c-ast 

Caiiltl blew the bittor-liilint^ north 
Upon thy rarlv, hiiinblo liirlli; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rearM above the jvnenl-carth 

'I'hv tcndor form. 

The flauntini; (low'rs our {gardens yioKl, 
High slu'll'rinp woods and wa's maun 

shirld. 
But thou, beni'ath tin- raiidniii liiidd 
( )' clod or stane, 
Adorns the iiistie slibble-lield. 

Unseen, alane, 

'{"here, in tliy scanty mantle clad, 
'I'hy snawie bosom sun-ward sjircad. 



rill', riiiiH.ii, IN Ai'uii., lySo. 

'I'hou [ills thy unassumin;,' head 

In humble guise; 

Hut now the share ujiteais thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Sucii is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet llow'rct of the rural shade! 
Hy love's simplicity betray 'd, 

And }i[uileless trust, 
Till she, liUe thee, all soil'd, is laid 

1 ,ow i' the dust. 

Such is the file of simple Hard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'il ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

( )f prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And w helm him o'l'r ! 

Such file to suricring worth is giv'n, 
Who longwith wanlsand woeshasstriv'n, 
l!y human pride or cimning driv'n 

'i"o mis'rv's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but lleav'n, 
I le, ruin'd, sink ! 

I'lv'n thou \\'ho mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant (late; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elntc, 

I'ull on thy bloom, 
Till crush'il beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom! 



TO KlllN. 



Am. hail ! inexorable lord! 

At whose 'destruction-breathing word 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
'I'he ministers uf grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimt'd dart; 
l'~or one has cut my dearest tie. 
And (juivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and jiouring, 

The storm no more I dread; 
Tho' thick'ning and blaek'ning 
Round my devoted head. 



And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a jjleasure can afVord, 

< )h ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 
No more I shrink apiiall'd, afraid; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day; 
^iy weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cokl-mould'ring in the clay? 
No fear more, no tear more. 

To stain my lifeless face, 
luiclas|)cd, and grasjied 
Within thy cold embrace! 



TO 



ETISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 



TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, 

FOR A NEW year's GIFT, JANUARY I, I787. 



Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round liave driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden jnime, 
Are so much nearer llcav'n. 

No gifts have I from Lulian coasts 
The infant year to hail; 



I send you more than India boasts, 
In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charg'd, perhaps too true; 

But may, ilear Maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you ! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 



MAY, 1786. 



I LANc; hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae ither end 

Than just a kind memento; 
But how the subject theme may gang, 

Let time anil chance deterniine; 
Perhajis, it may turn tnit a sang. 

Perhaps, turn out a sermon. 

Ye'U try the world soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'U find mankind an unco squad, 

Anil nuiclde they may gricvi> ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

l'".v'n when your end's attained; 
And a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll no say, men are villains a'; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law. 

Are to a few restricked : 
But (\-h ! mankind arc unco w-eak. 

An' little to be trusted; 
If self the wavering balaneo shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Vet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their fate we should na censure. 
For still til' important end of life 

They equally may answer; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' ]5oortith hourly stare him; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hue nae cash to spare him. 



Aye, free, aff han' your story tell. 

When wi' a l)osom crony; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony; 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection; 
But keel; thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt tli' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it; 
I wave the ipiantum o' the sin, 

The hazard o' concealing; 
But Och ! it hanlens a' within, 

And petriiies the feeling! 

To catch dame luutune's golden smile^ 

Assiduous wait upon her; 
Arid gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's juslify'il by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Not for a train attendant; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip. 

To baud the wretcli in order; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, 

Let tiiat aye be your bonier: 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pietences'; 
And resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring couseiiuences* 



ON A SCOTCH BARD. 



The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the ereiUure; 
But still the preacliiiifj cant foil)ear. 

And ev'ii the rifjid feature: 
Yet ne'er with wits prufane to range, 

Be Complaisance extended; 
An Atheist-laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity otTended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's rinj 

Religion may he blinded; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded; 



Hut when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 
A conscience but a canker — 

A correspondeni-e llx'd w i' Heaven 
is sure a noble anciior ! 

Adieu, dc:ir, anii:il)li' \'niilh! 

\'our JH-art can ne'er be wanting 1 
May prudence, fortiluile, ami truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, "Clod send you 

Still daily to grow wiser; (speed," 
And may ye better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' Ailviser ! 



ON A scorcFi r.ARi), (".oNi: TO Tiiio wicsr iNi)ii':s. 



A' VIC wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crand)o-cliidv, 
A' ye wha live an' never tiiink. 

Come mourn wi' me! 
Our billie's gi'en us a jink, 

An' owie the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key; 
For now he's taen anither shore. 

An' owre the sea ! 

The bonic lasses weel may wiss him. 
And in their dear jietitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
lladst thou taen aff some drowsy bunnnle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae ]ilea; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble. 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld, cantic Kyle may weepers wear. 
An' stain them wi' the sant, saut tear: 
'Twill mak her jjoor, auld heart, I fear. 

In flinders (lee; 
He was her T,aureat monie a year 

That's owre the sea ! 



lie saw misfortune's cauld nor-west 
I.ang mustering up a bitter blast; 
A jillel brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a berth afore the mast. 

An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under l-'orlune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' druimnock, 
Wi' his prouil, indcpciulent stomach, 

( 'duld ill agi(.'e ; 
So, row'l his hur<lii's in a liannnock. 

An' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguidin', 
Yet coin his pouches wad na jiide in; 
Wi' him it ne'er w.as under hidin'. 

He dealt it free: 
The Muse was a' that he look pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a co/.ie biel; 
Ye'll (ind him ay' a dainty chiel, 

And fu' o' glee; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, 

'I'lial's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billiel 
Your native soil was right ill-willie; 
Hut may ye flourish like a lily. 

Now bonilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 



72 



A DEDICATION. 



TO A HAGGIS. 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the pucklin-race ! 
Ahoon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As laiig's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurilies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
^\'hile thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up \vi' ready slight. 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch; 
And then, O what a gloriiius sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then, horn for horn they stretch an' 

strive, 
Deil tak tin; hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their wecl-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums; 
Then auki guidman, niaist like to rive, 

Eethankit hums. 



Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad slaw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad niak her spew 

Wi* perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ! 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a wither'il rash, 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

Hii nieve a nit : 
Thro' bloody Hood or field to dash, 

O how unlit ! 

P)ut mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' lieads will sned, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, 
Anil dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware 

That jaups in luggies; 
But, if you want her gratefu' j)raycr, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION TO G.WIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 



EXPKCT na. Sir, in this narration, 
A flcechin, lleth'rin Dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. 
Because ye're sirnam'd like his Grace, 
Perhaps related to the race; 
Then when Vm lir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them 
wha [fou; 

Maun please the great folk for a wame- 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow. 



For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; 
Sae 1 shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin, 
It's just sic Poet an' sic Patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him. 
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ! 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet. 
But oniy — he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come wh.at will 'o' nic), 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 



A DEDICATION. 



73 



I readily and freely grant, 
lie dovvna see a poor man want; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it; 
Ought he can lend he'll not refus't. 
Till aft his guidness is abus'd; 
And rascals wh) les that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husljand, father. 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' 
that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; 
It's naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye'U get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wlia never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the jxior man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' tenor of damnation; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

JMorality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whase stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back; 
Steal thro' the winnock frae a whore. 
But point the rake that taks the door : 
Be to the poor li]<c onie whunstane. 
And haud their noses to the grunstane, 
Ply cv'ry art, o' legal thieving; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile 

graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry 

faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. 
And damn a' parties but your own; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'U some day squeel in quaking terror ! 



5! J 



When vengeance draws the sword in 

wrath. 
And in the fire throws the sheath; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom. 
Just frets till Ileav'n commission gies 

him : 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Stillloudershrieks,andhcavier groans! 

Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my Dedication; 
But when <livinity comes 'cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour. 
But I maturely thought it proper. 
When a' my v\orks 1 did review, 
To dedicate them. Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel. 

Then patronize them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had aniaist said, ever pray : 
But that's a word I need na say: 
Tor prayin I hae little skill o't; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill 

o't; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, 
That kens or hears about yuu. Sir. — 



" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest iieart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 
Till Ilamiltons, at least a dizen, 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able, 
To serve their King and Country weel, 
I]y word, or ])en, or pointed steel ! 
Alay health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days; 
Till his wee, curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion : 



74 



TO A LOUSE. 



But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and 

favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances. 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances. 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures 
fly him, 



Make you as poor a dog as I am, 
Your humble servant then no more; 
For who would humbly serve the poor? 
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n! 
While recollection's pow'r is given, 
If, in the vale of humlale life, 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 
Should recognise my Master dear. 
If friendless, low, we m.eet together. 
Then, Sir, your hand — my Friend and 
Brother ! 



TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S 
BONNET, AT CHURCH. 



Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owie gauze and lace; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare ye set your tit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your 
dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and 

sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 

In shoals and nations; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight. 
Below the fatt'rels, snug an' tight; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it. 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 



My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose 

out. 
As plump and gray as onie grozet; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't. 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

1 wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's ilainen toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie. 

How daur ye do't? 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread. 

Are notice takin ! 

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotien ! 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 



75 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tovv'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign povv'rs ! 
From marking wildly scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade his labours plies; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise; 
Here Justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There Learning with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind. 

Above the narrov^■, rural vale; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail. 

Or modest merit's silent claim : 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn. 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying 
tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes, had their royal home : 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 

Wild beats my heart, to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply my sires have left their shed. 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-followingwhere your fathers led ! 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 



April i, 1785. 



While briers an' woodbines budding 

green. 
An' paitricks scraicbin loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my Muse, 
This freedom, in an unknown frien', 

I pray excuse. 



On Fasten-een we had a rockin. 

To ca' the crack and weave our stock- 

in; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin, 

Ye need na' doubt; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 

At sang about. 



76 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 



There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'cl ine best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the 
breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae 

weel. 
What gen'rous, manly liosoms feel; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Eeatlie's wark ! " 
They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Miiirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. 
And sae about him there I spier't; 
Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd 

He had ingine, 
That name excell'd it, few cam near't. 

It was sae line. 

That, set him to a pint of ale. 

An' either douce or merry tale. 

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel. 

Or \\'itty catclics, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my plcugh and 

graith. 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

Does weel enough. 

I am nae Poet, in a sense. 

But just a Rhymer, like, l)y chance, 

An' hae to learning nae ]iretence, 

Yet, what the matter? 
Whene'er my Muse docs on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 



Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang? " 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools; 
If honest nature made you fools. 

What sails your grammars? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, nnd come out asses. 

Plain truth to speak; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire. 

That's a' the learning I desire; 

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At plcugh or cart. 
My Muse, though hamely in attire. 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 

Or Ferguson's, the bauld an' slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be. 

If 1 can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me. 

If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if Yc hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I l/lieve, are few. 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna blaw about mysel. 
As ill I like my fauts to tell; 

But fiiends, an' folks that wish me well. 
They sometimes roose me; 

Tho' I maun own, as monie still 
,'\.s far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Gude forgie nie ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LA PR A IK. 



77 



At dance or fair; 
Maybe some ither ihiiifj; tliey jjie n\e 
They weel can spare. 

But Maucliline rnce, or Mauclilinc fair, 
I siiould be pri)U(i to meet you there; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin-vvare 

\Vi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 

An' kirsen him \vi' reekin water; 

Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart; 
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa, ye selfish, warly race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 



Ev'n love an' friendship, should give 
place 

To catch-the-plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face. 

Nor liear your crack. 

r>ut ye whom social jilcasurc charms, 
Whose hearts the tide t)f kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

" Kacii aid the others," 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers! 

But to conckide my lang epistle. 

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me hssle, 

Who am, most fervent. 
While I can either sing, or whissle. 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 

April 21, 1785. 



While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake. 
An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm del)tor, 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

I'or his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin the corn out-ovvre the rigs. 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bite. 
My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs, 

I would na write. 

The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and somethnig lazy. 
Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy. 

This month an' mair. 
That trouth my head is grown quite 
dizzie, 

An' something sair." 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad; 

" Conscience," says I, " Ye thowless jad ! 

I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night; 
So dinna ye affront your trade. 

But rhyme it right. 



" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly. 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts. 

An' thank him kindly ! " 

Sae I gat paper in a blink. 

An' down gaed stumpie in the ink: 

Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it; 
An' if ye winna mak it clink. 

By Jove I'll prose it ! " 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, ])ut whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly 
neither. 

Let time mak proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp, 
Tho' fortune use yiiu hanl and sharp; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft an' warp; 

She's but a bitch. 



78 



TO WILLTAM SIMPSOM. 



She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg, 
Sill' I could striddle ovvre a rig; 
But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' slug, an' shake my leg. 

As lang's I dow ! 

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer. 
Still persecuted by the liiunier 

Frae year to year : 
But yet, despite the kittle kinmier, 

1, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 

Behind a kist to lie an' sklent. 

Or purse-proud, big v\i' cent per cent ; 

An' nuickle wame, 
In some bit Brugli to represent 

A Bailie's name? 

Or is 't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' rufll'd sark an' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himselnaesheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aff are taen. 

As by he walks? 

" O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 

Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift. 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. 

Thro' Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride ! " 



Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead; 
But, thanks to llea\ en ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

And none but he ! " 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers of the ragged Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' 

growl. 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 
May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To reach their native, kindred skies. 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere. 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year ! 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, 

OCHILTREE. 
I GAT your letter, winsome Willie; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain. 
Should I believe, my coaxin billie, 

Your tlalterin strain. 



But I'se believe ye kindly meant it. 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor Musie; 
Tho' in sic phrasin terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 



May, 1785. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame; 
Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, 

A deathless name. 



(O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh Gentry ! 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 



79 



Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lasses gie my lieart a screed, 

As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed; 

It gies me case. 

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, 

She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain. 

Hut tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae Poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style; 
She lay like some unkend-of isle. 

Beside New Holland, 
Or where wild-meeting oceans l)oil 

Besoulh Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Ferguson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; 
Yarrow an' Tweed, to mony a tune, 

Owre Scotland's rings. 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

An' cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells. 
Tier moor:; red-brown wi' heather bells. 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells. 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft burc the grcc, as story tells, 

Frac Southron billies. 

At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, rcd-wat-shod, 

Or glorious dy'd. 



O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant am;ing the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in amorous wliids, 

Tneir loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

Wi' wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray; 
Or blinding drifts w ild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms 

To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! 

Whether the sunnner kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light. 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night ! 

The muse, na Poet ever fand her. 
Till by himsel lie learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trottin burn's meander, 

An' no think lang; 
O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder 

A heart- felt sang! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumltling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fnreweel,"my rhyme-composing brither!" 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither. 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; 
While moorlan' herds like guid, fat 

braxies; 
While Terra Firnia, on her axis. 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice 
In Robert Burns. 



8o 



TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you w hat they mean 

By this New-Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft have been 

Maist hke to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents. 
They took nae pains their speech to 
balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid 
Lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the 

moon, 
Just hke a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewin. 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed; 

It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it. 

Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it. 

An' ca'd it wrang; 
An' muckle din there was about it. 

Both loud an' lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk. 

An out o' sight. 
An' backlins-comin, to the leuk. 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; 
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' 
storm'd. 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they lietter were inform'd 
• Than their auld daddies. 



Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi" hearty crunt; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld-light caddies buie sic hands. 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
The lairds forbad, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought them ruin'dstick-an-stowe. 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe 

Ye'U find ane plac'd; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are 

blealin ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' girnin spile. 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some auki-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they call balloons. 

To tak a flight. 
An' stay ae month amang the moons, 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e 

them. 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' 
them, 

Just i' their pouch. 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 
I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter " ; 

But tho' duU-jirose folk Latin-splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we Bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. 



8i 



EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE, 



ENCLOSING SOMK POEMS. 



ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cock^ for fun an' diiiikin! 
There's monie Rodly folks are thinkin, 

Your (Ircaiiis an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-liUe, a-sinkin, 
Slraught to auld Nick's. 

Ye hae sac monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, diuken rants, 
Ye make a devil o' the saunts. 

An' (ill tliem fou; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen thio'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black; 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't aff tiieir back. 

Think, wicked si nner,whaye'reskaithii)p;. 
It's just thcbluc-gown badge an'clailhing 
()' saunts; taklhat,ye lea'e tlieumaithing 

To ken tiieni by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargaiii'd for, an' niair; 
hjae, when ye hac an hour to spare, 

I will ex])ect. 
Yon sang, ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho', faith, sma' heart hac I to sing! 
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've i)lay'd mysel a bonie spring. 

An' danc'd my (ill ! 
I'd better gaen an' sair't the l<ing 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

1 gaed a ro\ing v\i' the gun. 

An' brought a paitiick to the grun, 



A bonie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

'1 bought nane wad ken. 

The poor, wee thing was little hurt; 

I straikit it a wee for sport. 

Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; 

But, Deil-nia-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale aflair. 

Some auld, us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot; 
I was suspected for I lie jilot; 

1 scorn'd to lie; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat. 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, liy my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my ixnither an' my hail. 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

1 vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale, 

Tor this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin-time is by. 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry. 
Lord, I'se hae sportin by an' by. 

For my gowd guinea; 
Tho' I should herd the liuckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trovvth, they had muckle for to blame! 
'Twas neither bioken wing nor limb. 
But twa-three draps al)t)ut the wame 

Scarce thro' the feathers; 
An' baith a yellow (jei)rge to claim, 

An' th<jle their blethers! 

It ])its me aye as mad's a hare; 

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; 

But pennyworths again is fair. 

When lime's expedient: 
Meauwhilc I am, res])ectcd Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



82 



WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE. 



WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 



ON NITH-SIDE. 



Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As Youth and Love, with sprightly 
dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her syren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair; 
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup. 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high. 
Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold. 
While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and 

wro' Aght ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round. 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not — art thou high or low? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
l)id many talents gild thy span? 
Or frugal Nature grudge thee one? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly tind. 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To Virtue or to Vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 



Lead to be wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never bieak, 
Till future life, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
Ouod the Beadsman of Nith-side. 



Glenwddel Hermitage, June ■z'&th, 1788. 

FROM THE MS. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead. 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 
Happiness is but a name. 
Make content and ease thy aim. 
Ambition is a meteor gleam. 
Fame, an idle restless dream : 
Peace, the tenderest flower of spring; 
Pleasures, insects on the wing ; 
Those that sip the dew alone. 
Make the butterflies thy own; 
Those that would the bloom devour. 
Crush the locusts, save the flower. 
For the future be prepar'd. 
Guard, wherever thou canst guard; 
But thy utmost duly done. 
Welcome what thou canst noi shun. 
Follies past give thou to air, , 

Make their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of Man in mind, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence, with lowly heart, 
Him whose wondrous work thou art: 
Keep His goodness still in viet\'. 
Thy Trust, and Thy Example too. 
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! 
Quod the Beadsman of Nithe-side. 



ELEGY. 



83 



ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD. 



Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation, mark ! 
Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 



View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting 

grace ? 

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er slretch'd to save. 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 
She goes, but not to realms of ever- 
lasting reijt ! 



ANTISTROPIIE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thinf eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither 

bends? 
No fallen ai)gel,hurrd from upper skies; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 
She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail. 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here? 

O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is 

driv'n ! 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a 

conscience clear. 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to 

Heav'n. 



ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GODk 



But nmv his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course luas bright ; 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Heavnly Light. 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee'hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn. 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sd' shall 
mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 



Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns. 

Where echo slumbers! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers ! 



Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! 
Ye burnies, wimjilin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 



84 ELEGY. 



Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonilie, 

In scented bow'rs; 
Ve roses on your thorny tree, 

The tirst o' flovv'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

r th' rustling gale. 
Ye niaukins whiddin tluo' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; 

Ye whistling plover; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals. 
Ye lisher herons, watching eels; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham wc deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 

In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 

What time the moon, wi' silent glowr, 

Sets up her horn. 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O fivers, forests, hills, and plains! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe; 
And frae my cen the drapping rains 

Maun £vcr flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 



Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, gieen, flow'ry tresses shear. 
For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thuu, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of 

light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his 
flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man ! the brother! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound? 
Like thee, where shall I lind another. 

The world around? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep thee ae best fellow's fate 

L'er lay in earth. 



THE EriTAril. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief. 
And truth 1 shall relate, man; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief. 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man; 

A look of jiity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art,"" 

Tliat passest by this grave, man, 

There inoidders here a gallant Heart; 
For Matthew was a brave man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 



85 



if thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man; 

Here lies wha wool hud won thy praise, 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life itself resign, man; 
The synipatheiic tear maun fa'. 

For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch \^■ithout a stain, 
Like the vuichanging blue, man; 



This was a kinsman o' thy ain. 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er gude wine did fear, n.an; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Mattliew was a queer num. 

If only whiggish whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF M.ARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE 
APPROACH OF SPRING. 



Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And sjjreads her rheets o' daisies white 

Out-owre the grassy lea: 
Now Phoelms cheers the crystal streams. 

And glads the azure skies; 
Eut nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now laverocks wake the merry morn. 

Aloft on dewy wing; 
The merle, in his noontide liow'r. 

Makes woodland echoes ring; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note. 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white is the slae: 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the ()ueen o' bonie France, 

Where happy I hae i^cen, 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn. 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 



And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 

.'Vnd mony a traitor there; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands. 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman. 

My sister and my fne, 
(Srim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee; 
Nor th' balm that drajis on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying ee. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's 
friend. 

Remember him for me ! 

Oh ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae raair light up the morn ! 
Nac mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



86 TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 

When Nature her great niaster-piecf" design'd, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind. 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She forui'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth; 
Plain plotkling industry, and sober worth: 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanteti yet. 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput niortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to How, 
She kneads tlie lumpish philosophic <lough. 
Then marks the unyielding mass with grave designs. 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles. 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she try'd owe curious labour more; 
Some spumy, tiery, ignis fatuus matter, 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; 
\Vith arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a Poet. 
Cveature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being forni'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends: 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wij^c each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

I)Ut honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the jirDjiless climber of maTikind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find; 
And, to sujiport his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 



TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 87 

A title, and the only one I claim. 

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on Hfe's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no sellish stern absorbent stuff. 
That never gives — iho' humbly lakes enough; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverh'd, wisdom's hard wrung boon. 
The world were blest ilid bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that " the friemlly e'er should want a friend ! " 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct 's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 
Who make poor " will do " v\ail upon " 1 should" — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? 
Ye vvise ones, hence ! )e hurt tlie social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on l)ase alloy! 
But come ye, who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow! 
Whose aims of love would grasp the human race: 
Come thou who giv'st with all a com tier's grace; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul, half-blushing, half-afraid, 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendshij) at thy kind command; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens! should the branded character be mine! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sul)limcly flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind! 
So, to heaven's gates the hxrk's shrill song ascends. 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 
They dun benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again; 
The ])iebald jacket let me patch once more; 
On cighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 
I trust, meantime, my l)oon is in thy gift; 
That, i)lac'd liy thee upon (he wish'd-for height. 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 



88 TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRA, ESQ. 

I^ATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg; 
Dull, listless, teas'il, dejected, and deprest 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) : 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail? 
(It Soothes )H)or Misery, heark'ning to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he lirst survey'd. 
And doulily curse the luckless rhyming trade? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, 1 arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care liave found. 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground: 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envcnom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. — 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour. 
In all th' omnipotence of nde and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; 
The cit and jiolecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their jioison, doctors with their drug. 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has lier warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, licr dreaded spear and darts. 

But Oh ! thou bitter steji-mothcr ami hard, 
To thy jioor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard! 
iV thing untcachable in world's skill. 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn. 
And those, alas ! Tiot Amalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur. 
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur. 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side: 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; 
He liacks to teach, they mangle to CNpose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung. 
By bK>ckheads' daring into mailness stung; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear: 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife. 
The hapless Poet flounilers on thro' life. 
Till fled each ho]'e that once his bosom fir'd, 
And (led each I^luse that glorious once inspir'd, 



A LAMENT. 



89 



Low sunk in squalid, unprotected n<je, 

Dead, even resentment, for liis injur'd pajje, 

lie lieeds or feels no more the rutliiess critic's rage ! 

S<i, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, 
VoT lialf-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and hone, 
Lies, senseless of each tuL;ging hitch's son. 

Dulness! portion of the truly blest! 
Cahn sheller'd liaven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If manlhng high she tills the golden cup. 
With sober scllish ease they sip it up; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 
They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. 
The grave s;ige hern thus easy ]iicks his frog, 
And thinks tlie mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of ho|ie. 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune's care." 
So heavy, ])assive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stujiid o,\. 

Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; 
In equanimity they never dwell. 
By turns in soaring lieav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, I'ate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! 
Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; 
(Fled, like the sun eclijis'd as noon apjiears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears:) 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
Aiul bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path; 

' Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, 

With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 

LAMENT FOR JAM1<:S, KARL OF (^,LENCAIRN. 



THK wind blew hollow frae the hills. 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding 
stream : 
Beneath a craigy stee]>, a Bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain. 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely taen. 



He Ican'd him to an ancient aik. 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down 
with years; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 



9° 



.■1 LAMENT. 



" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods thai shed on a' the winds 

The honours of tlie aj^vd year ! 
A few sliorl niontlis, and glad and gay, 

Again yc'll cliarni the ear and e'e; 
But nt)clu in all revolving time 

t!an gladness bring again to nie. 

*' I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has eome a eruel blast. 

And my last hold of eailh is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen so many changefu' years, 

On earth 1 am a stranger grown ; 
1 wander in the ways of men, 

Alike utdcnowing and unknown: 
Unheard, unpilied, unrelievM, 

1 bare alane my lade o' care, 
Fvr silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my Si.>rrows share. 

"And last (the sum of a' my griefs!) 

My noble master lies m cjay; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

I lis country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary iieing now 1 jinie, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has lefl my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever lied. 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay. 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend. 

That fillest an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the l]ard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest 
gloom. 

" In Poverty's low barren vale, [round; 

Thick niisis, obscure, involv'd me 
'I'hough oft I turn'il tlie wistful eye, 

No ray of fame was to be found : 
'i'liou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air. 
The fiiendless Bard, and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date? 

While villains ripen grey with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, geii'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime? 
\\'liy ilid 1 live to see that day? 

A day to me so full of woe? 
O! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded uife yestreen; 
The nu)narch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been, 
The nu)ther may forget the child 

That smiles sac sweetly on her knee; 
But I'll remember thee, (llencairn. 

And a' that thou hast done for me ! " 



LINl'.S Sl':N'r TO SIR JOHN WMrri<:FOHD, OF AVIIITE 
FORD, BART., WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Tlloii, ulio thy honour as thv (lod rever'st. 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st. 

To thee this votive oftering I imparl. 

The tearful lril)ute of a broken heart. 

The Irieiid thou valued'st, I, the I'atron, lov'd; 

His worlh, his honour, all the world appiov'd. 

We'll mourn till we loo go as he has gone. 

And tread the dreary patli to that dark world unknown. 




Tnm Imd Rot I)1iiiiUm1 iiiico rlnlit, 
FiiHt bv nil liiK'*'. l)lt'fziiiliC llrifly 

» * * ♦ ♦ * 

Ami Mt )ii» clliow, Sdiilci- .Inliimy, 
IIIh iiiiclc'iil, triiMl>', ilidtilliy crony. 



!'"){• 01 



TAAf a SHANTER. 91 



TAM O' SHANTER. 

A TALE. 

Of Brawny is and of liogitis full in this Duke. 
C.AwiN Douglas. 

WiiKN chapman l)illics leave the street, 
And droulliy iiceliors, iiechors meot, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folU begin Id lak the gate ; 
While we sit iiousing at the nappy, 
An' getting fou and unco hap])y, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 
I'liat lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering ht;r brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
lor honest men and bonie lasses.) 

O Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'cn thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That cv'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank ud' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd that, late or soon. 
Thou would be found dee]) ihH)wn'd in Doon; 
(^r eatch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
By Alloway's auhl haunted kiik. 

Ah, g Mitle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how monie counsels sweet. 
How mony lengthen'd, sago advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises! 

But to our tale : Ae market night. 
Tarn had got ]ilanted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing (iiiely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 



92 TAM a SIIANTRR. 



Tarn lo'ed liim like a vera blither; 
They had heeu t'ou for weeks thegither. 
The night lirave on \vi' saiigs and clatter; 
And ay the ale was growing hotter: 
The landlady ami Tani grew gracious, 
\Vi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious: 
The SDUtcr lauld liis queerest stories; 
The landlord's laugl) was roads- chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn did na mind the storm a \\ hislle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy: 
As bees ilee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes w ing'd their way w i' pleasure; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a' die ills o' life victorious! 

But pleasures are like iiopi)ies spread, 
You seize the llow'r, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts fur ever; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That t1it ere you can point their place; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide; — 
The hour ajiproaches Tam maun ride; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the kcy-stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner v;as abroatl in. 

The wind l>lew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; 
l.oud, deep, anil lang, tlie thunder bellow'd: 
That night, a child might understand, 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, anil fire; 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er sume auld Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares; 
Kirk-.VUoway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the iiirks and meikle stane, 
WHiare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 



TAM O' SIIANTER. 93 



And near Ihc thorn, aboon the well, 
Wharc Muiij^o's niiihcr liaii^'d hersel. — 
Jk-fure him 1 )()oii pours all his Hoods; 
The doubling sloiin roars thro' the woods; 
The li^liltiiii};s (lash from jxjle to pole; 
Near and in-^re near the thunders roll : 
When, f^hmmerinf^ ihro' the j^roaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a Mceze; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were j^lancing; 
And li>Lid resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring bold John iJarleycorn ! 
What dangers Ihou canst make us scorn! 
Wi' tijjpenny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' us(piebae, we'll face the devil I — 
The swats sae leani'il in Taimnie's noddle, 
I'air play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
Ijut iVl aggie slood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
.She venlur'd forward on the light; 
And, vow I Tam saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance; 
Nae colillion brent new frac I'Vance, 
But hmnpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mellle \\\ their heels. 
A winnockd)unker in the cast. 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 
A touzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge: 
lie scrcw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
Coffnis stood round like <(])cn presses. 
That shaw'd ihe de.id in llxir last dresses; 
And by some devilish canliaip slight 
Each in its cauld hand Ixdd a light, — 
By which heroic Tam was able 
To note ujion ihe lialy table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchrislen'd bairns; 
A tliic-f, new-culted frae the r.ipe, 
Wi' his last gasp his g.ib did gape; 
live t(jnKihawks, wi' blude red rusted ; 
Five scymilars, vvi' niunler crusted; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain S(m o' life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the lieft; 
Wi' niair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tannriie glowr'il, ainaz'd, and curious. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: 
The piper loud and louder blew; 
The dancers tpiick and (]uicker (lew; 



94 TAM a SHANTER. 



They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka cnrliii swat and reeUit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had tliae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie tlannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only i">air, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them ot^" my hurdies. 
For ae blink o' the honie hurdles ! 

But withei'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwooddie hags wail spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a ciumniock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kend what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie. 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perisli'd mony a bonie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the countiy-side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley liarn. 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of w itches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her povv'r; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was, and Strang,) 
And how 'I'am stood, like ane bewitch'd. 
And thought his very een enrich'd; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fldg'd fu' fain, 
And liotch'il and blew wV might and main: 
Till lirst ae caper, syne anilhcr, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke; 
As ojien pussie's mortal foes. 
When, jiop ! she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When, "Catch the thief! " resounds aloud; 



ON CAPTAIN GROSES PEREGRINATIONS. 



95 



So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy coniin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do ihy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig: 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross, 
liut ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd. 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think, ye may Ijuy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THRO' SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 



Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither 

Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats; — 
If there'^a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 



If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 



By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, 

Or kirk desci'ted by its riggin, 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

.Seme eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say. Lord save's! 
colleaguin 

At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep read in hell's black 
grammar, 

Warlocks and witches, 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight bitches. 



o6 



ON SEEmc A WOUNDED HARE. 



It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
Atid ane wad rather fa'ii than fled; 
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And taen the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty airn ca[)S and jinglin jackets, 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont gude; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backels. 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; 
Auld Tuiialcain's lire-sIu)ol and fender; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

W'eel shod wi' brass. 



Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg 
The cut of Adam's philibeg; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

Fle'U prove you fully. 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail guUie. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Gude fellows wi' him; 
And port, O port I shine ihou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the Powr's o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair niisca' thee; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 



WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 



\_ April, 1789] 



Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eve; 

May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. 
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 

The bitter little that of life remains; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the luffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXnUKC.H-SHlRH, WITH BAYS. 



While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green. 

Or pranks the sod in froho mood, 
Or tunes Eolian strains between; 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryl^urgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade; 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 
By Tweed erects his aged head, 



And sees, with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed; 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows; 

So long, sweet Poet of the year. 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well 
hast won; 

While Scotia, with exulting tear. 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, 

A VKRY VOUNO LADY, 
WRITTP.N ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, TKESENTED TO HER PV THE AUTHOR. 



Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay. 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never may'st tliou, lovely Flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety sliow'r ! 
Never l>oreas' hoary ])ath, 
Never Eurus' jxjis'nous lireath. 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor ert'ii Sol loo fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 



May'st thou hjng, sweet crimson 
gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem; 
Till some evening, sober, calm. 
Dropping dews, and brcatliing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird tliy re(|uiem sings; 
Thou, amid the dirgefui sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 



THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

r>oni Isabella's arms. 



Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow; 

]$ut cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low- 



98 



PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. 



Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious sinil'd; 
But, long ere noun, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That Nature linest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 



Dread Omnipotence, alone. 
Can heal the wound lie gave; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall nappy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO 
THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 



My Lord, I know your nol;)le ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble Slave complain. 
How saucy rhttbus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride. 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts. 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow. 
They're left the whitening stanes amang. 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by. 
That to a Bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me; 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 
K jWild-roaring o'er a linn : 
tnfoying large each spring and well 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel. 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 
1 ^ » I I 



Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest w islies. 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wantler on my lianks. 
And listen monie a grateful bird, 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire; 
The gowdspink, Music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the clioir : 
The blackbird strong, thelintw hite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow; 
The robin pensive Autunni cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow : 

This, too, a covert shall ensure. 

To shield them from the storm; 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat. 

To weave his crown of flow'rs; 
Or fmd a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone-descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty, idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charm 

The hour of heav'n to grace. 
And birks extend their fragrant arms. 

To screen the dear embrace. 



THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM. 



99 



Her'i haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some ,Tiusing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, gray; 
Oi, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darUly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swell'ng on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 
My lowly banks o'erspread, 

An:\ view, deep-bending in the pool, 
Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 



Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest. 

The close enibow'ring thorn. 

So may Old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken. 

To social-flowing glasses 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men. 

And Athole's bonie lasses ! " 



THE KIRK'S ALARM. 

A SATIRE. 
A Ballad Tune — "Push about the Brisk Bowl.'* 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 

There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast, 
"That what is not sense must be nonsense." 

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil-doeis wi' terror; 
To join faith and sense upon onie pretence. 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, 

And your life like the new driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, 

For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan, 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal biimstane like adle, 

And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames. 

There's a holier chase in your view; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, 

Foe puppies like you there's but few. 



L.ofC 



lOO Tim KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM. 

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await? 
\Vi' a jum]\ yell, and howl, alarm every soul. 

For the t'oul thiet is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tud in the fauld, 

A tod meiUle waur than the Clerk; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll he in at the death, 

And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster. 

The corps is no nice of recruits: 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose, Janiy Goose, ye hae made but tooni roose. 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's haly ark. 

He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 
Wi' your " liberty's chain " and your wit; 

O'er Pegasus' siile ye ne'er laid a striile. 

Ye but smelt, man, the place whore he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book. 
And the book no the waur, let nic tell ye ! 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine .Side, Irvine Side, wi' your turkeycock pride. 

Of manhood but sma' is your share; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even yt>ur faes will allow, 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock 

To crush common sense for her sins. 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holv Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull, 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; 
The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a saint, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 



ADDRESS rO THE TOOTHACHE. 



Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns, 

Ammunition you never can need; 
Your hearts are the stuff will be powlher enough, 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire? 
You muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie. 

She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. 



ADDRESS TO THE rOOTHACHE, 

WRITTKN WHfIN THE AlITHOK WAS CiUIKVOUSLV TOUMKNTEI) nV THAT DISORDER. 



VIy curse upon your venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alaiig; 
\nd thro' my lugs gies monie a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance; 
Fearing my nerves wi' hitter jiang, 

Like racking engines ! 

A^hen fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic S(|ueezes; 
^ur neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan; 
iut thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Ay mocks our groan ! 

Vdown my beard the slavers trickle ! 

throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
U round the fire the giglets keckle 

To see me loup; 
Vhile, raving mail, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 



()' a' the numerous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft i)argains, cutty-stools, — 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell. 
Whence a' the tt)nes o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked jilagues their numbers tell, 

In dreatlfu' raw. 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of iliscord squeel. 
Till tlaft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmont's Toothache I 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEV-PIECE IN THE PARLOUK OK THE INN AT KENMOKH, TAVMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. 

These noithern scenes with weary feet I trace; 

O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 

Th' abodes of covey 'd grouse and timid sheep, 

My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 

Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. — 

The meeting clifTs each deep-sunk glen divides. 

The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; 



I02 



BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. 



Th' outstretching lake, embosoro'd 'mong the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride. 
The palace rising on his verdant side; 
The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste; 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam — 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — 

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 

And look through Nature with creative tire; 

Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd. 

Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 

Find balm to sooth her bitter, rankling wounds: 

Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nwaid stretch her scan. 

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 



BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. 



Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. 
And ward o' mony a prayer. 

What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair. 

November hirples o'er the lea. 

Chill, on thy lovely form; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour. 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 
The bitter frost and snaw 



May He, the friend of woe and want. 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds. 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. 
Fair in the summer morn : 

Now, feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd bv ruffian hand! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our lan4. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 



103 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL. 

STANDING nv THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 

The roaring Fyers pours his inossy floods; 

Till full he dashes on the ri>cky mounds, 

Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow. 

As deep recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends. 

And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. 

Dim-seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, 

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. 

Still, thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 

And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils — 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. 



AULD NF.EBOR, 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor. 
For your auld farrant, fren'jy letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter. 

Ye speak sae fair. 
For my pair, .silly, rhvmin clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. 
To cheer yuu through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld gray hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; 
I'm tauid the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
And gif it's sae. ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't 
wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think 

Braw sober lessons. 



Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Conmiend me to the Bardie clan ; 
KxcejJt it be some idle plan 

(J' rhvmin clink. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

'i'hey ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' 

livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there. 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 

An' fash nair mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme 1 it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie I 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie; 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door tae door. 



104 



THE INVENrORY. 



THE INVENTORY, 



IN ANSWKU TO THE I'SIIAI, MANOATE SENT BY A Sl'UVEYOK OF THE TAXES, REQUIRING 
A KETUKN OK THE NUMllKK ol' HOKSES, SEUVANIS, CAKKIAGES, ETC., KEPT. 



3lK, as your mandate did iccjuost, 
[ send you here a faitld'u' list, 
0' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, 
To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. 

Imprimis then, for cairiage cattle, 
[ have four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
(Vs ever drew afore a peltle; 
My han' afore's a glide auld has-heen, 
\\\' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been; 
My han' ahin's a weel gaun tillie. 
That aft has borne n\e hame frae Killie, 
(\n' yi)ur auld burr(>ugh monie a time, 
[n days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance wlian in my wooing pride 
[ like a blockhead boost to ride. 
The wilfu' creature >.ae 1 pat to, 
[Lord, pardon a' my sins an' that too!) 
[ play'd my lillie sic a shavie, 
■she's a' bedevil'd \vi' the spavie. 
My furr-ahin's a wordy lieast, 
\s e'er in lug or tow was trac'd, — 
The fourth's, a Highland Donald hastie, 
\ damn'd red-w ud Kilburnie blastie. 
lu)rel)y a C'owle, o' C'owte's the wale, 
\.s ever ran afore a tail; 
{ he be sjiar'd to be a beast, 
^e'll draw nie fifteen jnm at least. — 

Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, 
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new; 
Ve auM wlieelbarrow, mair ft>r token, 
\c U'g, an' baith ihe trams, are broken; 

made a poker o' the sjiiirie, 
S.n' my auld mother brunt the tiin'le. 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
\un de'ils for rantin' an' for noise; 
^ gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other, 
^'ee Davock hands the nowte in fother. 

rule them as I ought discreetly, 
Ui' often labour them completely. 

Mossgiel, 
February 2i, fjSb. 



An' ay cm Sundays duly nightly, ' 

I on the ipiestions tairge them tightly; 
Till faith, wee Davock's grown sae gleg, 
Tho' scarcely langer than my leg, 
He'll screed you aff Mfl'ectual Calling, 
As fast as onie in the dwalling. — 

I've nane in female servan' station, 
(Lord keep me ay 'Vae a' temptation !) 
1 ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is. 
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses; 
An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
I ken the devils dare na touch me. 
W'i' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
lleav'n sent me ane niae than 1 wanted. 
My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddy in her face, 
L.nough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonie sweet v\ ee lady, 
I've paid enough for her already, 
An' gin ye tax her or her niither, 
B' the Lord, ye'se get them a' ihegither. 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I'm takin'; 
Frae this time forth, I do declare, 
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hiz/.ie mair; 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit ! — 
The Kirk an' you may tak' you that, 
It puts but little in your pat; 
Sae tlinna put me in your bukc, 
Nor for my ten while shillings hike. 

This list wi' my ain han' I w rote it. 
Day an' date as under notit : 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

Robert Burns. 



THE WHISTLE. 105 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 

I sin<; of a Whistle, the priile of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king. 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
"This Whistle's your cliallenge, in Scotland get o'er. 
And drink them to hell, Sir, or ne'er see ine more ! " 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell. 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell; 
The son of great Loda was ctjuqueror still. 
And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the l)ottle, unconjjuer'd in war, 
He drank hi:, poor god-shi[) as deep as the sea. 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorit)U'^, the troj^hy has gain'd. 
Which now in his house has for ages reniain'd; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of (law; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; 
And tiusty (Ilenritldel, so skill'd in old coins; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

(Jraigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil. 
Desiring Glenriddel to yielil up the sjioil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients ! " Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend. 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his I'riend, 
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field. 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield. 



Io6 THE WHISTLE. 



To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, 

Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen. 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 

And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; 

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, 

And the bands grew the tighter the more tney were wet. 

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core. 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night. 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; 
A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend? 
Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; 
So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime! 

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, 

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day ! " 




TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. ^"7 

SKETCH 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white; 
How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing; If these mortals, the Critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I — let the Critics go whistle ! 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honor my story. 

Thou, first of our orators, first of our wits; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits; 
/"With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
(No man, with the half of 'em, e'er could go wrong; 

With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
\No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right; 

A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, 

For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good Lord, what is man ! for as simple he looks. 

Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks. 

With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 

All in all, he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling Passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 

That like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours : 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know him? 

Pull the string. Ruling Passion, the picture will show him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 

One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss'd him ! 

For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 

Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to his tribe. 

And think Human-nature they truly describe; 

Have you found this, or t'qther? there's more in the wind, 

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan 

In the make of the wonderful creature call'd Man, 

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 

Nor even two different shades of the same. 

Though like as was ever twin-brother to brother 

Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse, 
Whose rhymes you'll perhaps. Sir, ne'er deign to peruse : 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, 
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels ! 



[o8 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



My mucli-lionour'd Patron, lielieve your poor Poet, 

Vour courage nuicii more than your prudence you show it, 

In vain with Squire Pilly for laurels you struggle, 

He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle; 

Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em. 

He'd up the back-stairs, and by Ci — he would steal 'em. 

Then feats like Squire liilly's you ne'er can achieve 'em, 

It is not, outdo him — the task is, out-thieve him. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



ELLISLAND, 2IST OCT., I789. 



yVow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 

\nd are ye ha'>e, and weel, and cantie? 

kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 

^ord send you ay as weel's 1 want ye. 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Hen^n south ! 
^nd never drink be near his drouth ! 
le taltl mvsel by word o' mouth, 

' He'd tak niy letter; 
lippen'd to the chiel in troulh, 
And bade nae better. 



Jut ailjlins honest Master Heron 
■lad at the time st)nic dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And holy study; 
^nd tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 

$ut what d'ye think, my trusty her, 
'ni turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
*arnassian tiueens, 1 fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me! 
Lnd then my lifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

'e glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Vha by Castalia's winiplin' streamies, 
owp, sing, and lave your pretty lim- 
bics, 

Ve ken, ye ken, 
'hat Strang necessity supreme is 
'Mang sons o' men. 



I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 
They maun hae brose and brats o' 

dudtlies; 
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud 



I need na vaunt. 
But I'll sued besoms — thraw 
woodies. 

Before they want. 



saugh 



LortI help me thro' this warld o' care I 
I'm weary sick o't late and air! 
Not but 1 hae a richer share 

Than monie ithers; 
But why should ae man l)etter fare. 

And a' men brithers? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van. 
Thou stalk o carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A huly fair; 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(J'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy tire-side clime 

To weans and wife. 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie; 
And eke the same to honest Lu^ky, 
I wat she is a daintie chuckle. 

As e'er tread clay !■ 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockle, 

I'm yours for ay. 

Robert Burns. 



ON THE LATE MISS BURNET. 1 09 



PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW VEAR'S DAY EVENING. [179O.] 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 

That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity; 

Tho', l)y-thc-l)y, al)rt)ail why will you roam? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new-year ! 

Old Father Time deputes mc here before ye. 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 

" You're one year older this important day." 

If wiser too — he hintetl some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink. 

He bade me on you press this one word — " Think ! " 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit. 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him. 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair. 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old 15ald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — Now! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave. 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 

OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow. 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 



TO A GENTLEMAN. 



Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, liigh Heaven above was tiucsl shown, 

And by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd; 
Ye rugged clifTs o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth, 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 

And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres: 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS WRITTEN 

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO 
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 



Kind Sir, I've read your paper through. 
And, faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I 

wanted ? 
This monie a day I've grain'd and 

gaunted. 
To ken what French mischief was 

brewin'; 
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin'; 
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 
If Venus yet had got his nose off; 
Or how the collieshangie works 
Atween the Russians and the Turks; 



Or if the Swede, before he halt. 
Would play anither Charles the Twalt : 
If Denmark, any body spak o't; 
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; 
How cut-throat Prussian blades were 

hingin; 
How libbct Italy was singin ; 
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swigs, 
Were savin or takin aught amiss: 
Or how our merry lads at hame. 
In Britain's court, kept up the game : 
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er 

him ! 



THE RIGHTS OP WOMAN. 



Ill 



Was managing St. Stej^lien's quorum; 
If sleekit C hathani Will was livin, 
Or glaikit (."harlie got his iiieve in; 
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin; 
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 
Or if hare a-s yet were taxd'; 
The news o' ]-)rinces, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds,, and opera- 
girls; 
If that daft Huckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 
A' this and uiair 1 never heard of; 



And, but for you, I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you, 
And pray a' guid things may attend 

you! 
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 

Remonstrance lo the Gentleman torvhom 
the foregoing Poem was addressed. 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 
We poor sons of metre 

Are often negleckit, ye ken; 
For instance, your sheet, man, 
(Though glad I'm to see't, man,) 

I get it no ae day in ten. — R. B. 



LINKS ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 



This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Hums, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I spracliled up the brae, 

I di4iner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at druken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken; 
I've even join'd the lionour'd jorum. 
When mighty Squireships of the quo- 
rum 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin; 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet, my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 
' As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But, O for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, 

And how he star'd and stam- 
mer'd, 



When goavan, as if led wi' i)ranks, 
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks, 
He in the parlor hammer'd. 

I sidling sheltcr'd in a nook. 
An' at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen; 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming; 
The fient a ])ride, nac pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest plough- 
man. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

PKOLOGUE SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT. [nOV. 26, I793.] 

While Europe's eye is fix'd cm mighty things. 
The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; 
While quacks of State must each produce his plan. 
And even children lisp The Rights of Man; 



M/SS FONTENELLE. 



Amid the mighty fuss just let me mention. 
The I\it;l\ts of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the Sexes' intermix'd connexion, 
One sacred Riglit of Woman is. Protection. — 
The tender tlowcr that Hfis its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall hefore the blasts of Fate, 
Sunk on the earth, det"ac'd its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward th' imiieiuling storm. 

Our second Right — hut needless here is caution. 
To keep that Right inviolate's the fashion. 
Each man of sense iias it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'il wrong it — 'tis l")ecc>rum. 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rougli rude men had naughty ways; 
^Vould swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a Lady's quiet ! — 
Now, thank our stars! those (.Gothic times are fled; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred! 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manneis. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That Right to tluUeriiig female hearts the nearest, 
^Vhich even tlie Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most huuibly own — 'lis dear, dear admiration! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Sighs, tears, smiles, glances, tits, flirtations, airs, 
'(lainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? 

Then truce with kings, and truce with constitutions. 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ! 
Let M.ijesty your first attention summon. 
Ah! ^a ira! Thk Majkstv oi' Woman! 



ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, 

ON HER nENEFlT-MC.irr, DECEMPEK 4, I795, 
AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES. 

Stii.I. anxious to secure your partial favour, 

And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 

A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 

'Twould vamp my bill, said 1, if nothing better; 

So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; 

Said, nothing like his works was ever jirinted; 

And last, my Prologue -business slily hinted. 

" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 

" I know your bent — these are no laugliing times: 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. i'3 



Can you — but, Mim, I own I have my fcar» — 
Dissolve in pauiic — and ftentimcntal tears? 
With laden sijjhs, and solemn-roundo'l sentence, 
I<(^us<: froiri his slujjjjish slunil»ers fell Keperitancc; 
I'ainl Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving; on hi^h the rlesolislinj; brand. 
Calling the storms to l>ear him o'er a guilty land? " 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing. 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? 
I'll laugh, that's |i(*z — nay, more, the world shall know it; 
And so, your servant! gloomy Master I'oct ! 

firm as my creed, Sirs, 'lis my hx'd belief, 
TTiat Misery's another word for (jrtcf; 
1 also think —so may I l>e a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life cnjoy'd. 

Thou man of cra^y care and cea.selcss sigh. 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five: 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch! 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; 
Who, as the l>oughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desitcrate thought — a rope — thy neck — 
Or, where the V^ectling cliff I'crhangs the deep, 
I'eerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, mo[)ing elf? 
Laugh at hcnr follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Ix;arn to despis<: those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's yjur grand specific. 

'Jo sum up all, 1^ merry, I a/lvisc; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 

VERSi:S Tf> A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PKKSENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, 
In sacred stiains and tuneful numbers j(<in'd. 

Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in Ihy breast 
Di->cordant jar thy b<;sf;iii-chords among! 

But I'eace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
Or I^ve, ecstatic, wake his seraph song! 

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 

As modest Want the talc of woe reveals; 

While conscicjus Virtue all the strain endears. 
And heaven-born Piety her sanctifjn seiJs ! 



114 



POEMS. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 



Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 
In chase o' thee, what crowdshae swerv'd 
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers; 
And och ! o'er afl thy joes liae starv'd, 

'Mill a' tliy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage; 
Scarce ane has tried the sheplierd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage? 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? 
They're no herd'sballats,Maro'scatches; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin 
patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches. 
That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 
Blaw sweetly in its native air 



And rural grace; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 
A rival place? 

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A cliiel sae clever; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever ! 

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines. 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines; 

Nae gowden stream thro'myrtles twines, 

Where Pliilomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonie lasses bleach their class; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's 
lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; 

Nae snap conceits; but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love; 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF THE LAST 
EDITION OF HIS POEMS, 

PRESENTED TO THE LADY WHOM HE HAD OFTEN CELEBRATED 
UNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS. 



Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 
friend. 

Nor thou the gift refuse. 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing Muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 
Must bid the world adieu, 



(A world 'gninst peace in constant arms) 
To join the friendly few. 



Since, thy gay morn of lifco'eicast, 
Chill came the tempest's lower, 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower.) 



TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER. 



liS 



Since life's gay scenes must charm no 
more, 

Still much is left behind; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part; 



And, dearest gift of heaven below. 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove : 

And doubly were the poet blest, 
These joys could he improve. 



POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love, was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; 

My fathers have fallen to right it; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son. 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join. 

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; 

Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epocha make such a fuss. 

That gave us the Hanover stem? 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 

' But, loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 

Who knows how the fashions may alter? 
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades in your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



ii6 



ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE. 



SKETCH. — NEW-YEAR DAY. [1790.] 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



This day Time winds th' exhausted 

chain, 

To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer, 
Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press. 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds; 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, 
And blooming Keith's engaged with 

Gray) 

Fromhousewife cares aminute borrow — 
— That grandchild's cap will do to- 
morrow — 
And join with me a moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver? 

Another year has gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion? 
"The passing moment's all we rest on ! " 
Rest on — for what? what do we here? 
Dr why regard the passing year? 



Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more? 
A few days may, a few years must. 
Repose us in the silent dust; 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss! 
The voice of Natrre loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies. 
That something in us never dies; 
That on this frail, uncertain state 
Hang matters of eternal weight; 
That future-life in worlds unknown. 
Must take its hue from this alone; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright. 
Or dark as misery's woful night. — 

Since then, my honor'd, first of friends. 
On this poor being all depends; 
Let us th' important Now employ. 
And live as those that never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honors 
crown'd. 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight — life's sorrows to repulse; 
A sight — pale Envy to convulse;) 
Others may claim your chief regard; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY, 
AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Crochallan came. 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same; 
His bristling lieard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night; 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



MONOD Y ON A LAD Y. 1 1 7 



INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR 

TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUGHTRV, SEAT OF MR. HERON, WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With Sdul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave. 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once iired, 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd ! 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 

From fiiendship and dearest affection remov'd; 

How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed' not a tear: 
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull from Maria's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey. 

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. 



THli El'ITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 

What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam; 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ii8 



ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY. 



SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., 
OF GLENRIDDEL. 

{April, 1794.J 

No more ye warljlers of the wor d — no more ! 
t Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul; 

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. 



Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And sooth the Virtues weeping o'er his bier : 
The Man of Worth, and lias not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY, 
NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 



Old Winter with his frosty beard. 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, — ■ 
"What have 1 done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 



To counterbalance all this evil; 

f live me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match 

me; 
" 'Tis done !" says Jove; so ends my 

story. 
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, 

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARU PRESENTED HER. [jUNE 26X11, 1796.] 



Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the Poet's prayer — 
That fate may in her fairest page. 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name; 
With native worth, and spotless fame. 



And wakeful caution still aw'hre 
Of ill — but chief, man's fejon snare : 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



rO MR. SYME. 



119 



VERSES 



WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF. 



Accept the gift a friend sincere 
Wad on thy worth he pressin'; 
Remembrance eft may start a tear, 
But oh ! that tenderness forliear, 
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 

My morning raise sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 
My peace, my hope, for ever ! 



You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel 

For a' the joy I borrow, 
In solitude — then, then I feel 
I canna to mysel' conceal 

My deeply-ranklin' sorrow. 

Farewell ! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken ; 
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee. 
For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee — 
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, 
AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY. 

jyth December, lyqS- 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 

And cook'ry the first in the nation; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 

Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O, H.\D the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 

yerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



SONNET, 

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 25TH JANUARY, 1/93, 
THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR. 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; 

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 

See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign. 
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 



I20 



TO A GENTLEMAN. 



So in lone Poverty's dominion drear 

Sits meek Content with light un.inxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou wliose l^right sun now gilds the orient skies! 

Riches denied, thy boon was j^urer joys. 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; 

The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. 



POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, 

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. [DECEMBER, 1795.] 



Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal; 
Alake, alake, the meikle Deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches. 



I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. 

That one pound one, I saiily want it : 

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would lie kind; 
Andwhilemy heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been 

licket. 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket. 

And sair nie sheuk; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life, I'm promis'd niair o't, 
My heal and weal I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED, 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's 
way 

The fumes of wine infuriate send; 
(Not moony madness more astray;) 

Who but deplores that hapless friend? 



Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah wliy should I such scenes out- 
live? 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, I796. 



My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill. 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it. 

Would pain, and care, and sickness 

spare it; 
And fortune favour worth and merit. 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; 

Syne wha wad starve?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her. 
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her; 
Oh ! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker 

Pve found her still, 
Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our siiifu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast 
saut on, 

He's off like fire. 



Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it isna fair, 
First shewing us the tempting ware. 
Bright wine and bonie lasses rare. 

To put us daft; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 



Poor man, the flie, aft bizzies by. 

As aft as chance he comes thee nigh. 

Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs. 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 



Rut lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel. 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the Devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY, 



ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 



I CALK no Goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that 

feigns; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
F'or boons recorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 



Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night; 
]f aught that giver from my mind efface; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; 
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring 

spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 



An honest man here lies at rest. 
As e'er God with his image blest; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 



Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. 
Few hearts with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



VERSES WRITTEN A T SELKIRK. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. CREECH, 13TH MAY, 1787. 



AULD chuckie Reekie's sair distrest, 
Down druops her ance weel burnish't 

crest, 
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 
Willie's awa ! 

Willie was a witty wight, 

And had o' things an unco slight; 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, 

An' trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 

Willie's awa ! 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

That \Aas a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Willie's awa ! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and 

fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer 
May mourn their losswi'doofu' clamour; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a'; 

1 fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour. 
And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw, 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 



Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace; 
jNIackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna 

quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw; 
Griefs gien his heart an unco' kickin', 

Willie's awa ! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd grinnin' blellum. 
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa ! 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempest blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's lied, 

Willie's awa ! 

May I be Slander's common speech; 
A text for infamy to preach; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw; 
When I forget thee, Wii.LiK Ckeech, 

Tho' far awa ! 

May never wicked Fortune touzle him! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty 'Claw ! 
Then to the blessed. New Jerusalem 

Fleet wing awa ! 




O Thou vrbo kindly dost provide 
For every creature's want! 

We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, 
For all Thy goodness lent. 



Page 123 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 123 



INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE 

ERKCTED BY BUR'WS TO THE MEMORY 01'' FERGUSSON. 

" Here lies Robert l""erg\isson, Poet, 

Horn September 5th, -751 — 

Died i6tb October, 1774." 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 

"No storied urn nor animated bust; " 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 

To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate, 
Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fir'd. 

Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in State, 

And thankless starv'd what they so much admir'd. 

This luiml)le Irilnite with a tear he gives, 
A brother Hard, he can no more bestow : 

But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, 
A nobler monument ihau Art can show. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 



O THOU, who kindly dost provide 
For every creature's want ! 

We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 
For all thy goodness lent : 



And, if it jilease thee. Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent; 
But whether granted, or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 

Amen ! 



A VERSE 

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BV BURNS, TO THE MASTEU OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE 
AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

Whkn death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come; 
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more. 

Than just a Highland welcome. 

LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To thee I turn v ith swimming eyes; 
Where is tliat soul of Freedom flecl? 
Immingled with the miglity deatl ! 

Beneath the hallow'd tu.f where Wallace lies 
Hear it nut, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye lialibling winds, in silence sweep; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep. 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 



124 



ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 



Is this the power in Freedom's war, 

That wont to bid the battle rage? 
Behold that eye which shut immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE 

TO THE MEMORY OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART. 

False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore; 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal-day 
To prove our loyal truth; we can no more; 

And owning Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive low adore. 

Ye honour'd mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee who smiling victory led. 
And fell a martyr in her arms 
(What breast of northern ice but warms?) 

To bold Balmerino's undying name. 
Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flame. 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim. 

Nor unavenged your fate shall be. 

It only lags the fatal hour; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power; 
As from the cliff, with thundering course. 

The snowy ruin smokes along. 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale ! 
So vengeance ..... 

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 



Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld povertv, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him : 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankeit care, 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him. 
Except the moment that they crush't 

him; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, 



Tho' e'er sae short. 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em. 
And thought it sport. 



Tho' he was bred to kintra wark. 

And counted was baith wight and stark. 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark. 

Ye roos'd him than ! 



TO y. LAPRAIK. 



125 



ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET 



BY THE GUIDWIFE OF 
GUIDWIFE, 

MIND it weel, in early date, 
When I was beardless, young and blate, 

An' tirst could thresh tlie barn. 
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When first auiang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass. 
Still shearing, and clearing 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an haivers, 
Wearing the day awa : 

Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast; 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
ome usefu' jilan, or beuk could make. 
Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough hur-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded l>ear, 
' turn'd the weeder-clips aside. 
An' spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise; 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

lui still the elements o' sang 

n formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Vv'ild floated in my brain; 
rill on that har'st I said before, 
*Iy ])artner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain : 

3CC her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up my jingle, 



WAUCHOPE-HOUSE. [1787.] 

Her witching smile, her pauky een, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle; 
I fired, inspired. 

At ev'ry kindling keek, 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below. 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name. 

Be mindfu' o' your mither: 
She, hf)nest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her, 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men. 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn or byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be more vauntie o' my hap. 

Douce hingin' owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Farewell then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa' : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 

March, 1787. 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 



jUin speed an' furder to you, Johny, 
)uid health, hale han's, and weather 

bonie 
■Jew when ye're nickan down fu' cany 



13TH, 1785. 

The staff o' bread. 
May ye ne'er want a stonp o' bran'y 
To clear your head. 



126 



THE TWA HERDS. 



May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er niuirs an' hags 

Like drivin' wrack; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it. 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stum pie pen I gat it 

\Vi' muckle wark. 
An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it. 

Like onie clerk. 

It's nowtwa nionth that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature 

On lioly men. 
While Deil a hair yoiirsel' ye're better. 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our nob'e sels; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives an' whisky stills. 

They are the Muses. 



Your friendship, Sir, 1 winna quat it, 
An' if ye make objections at it, 
Then han' in nieve some day we'll 
knot it, 

An' \\ itness take. 
An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it 
It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun \\ ithout the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard. 

An' theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitce 

Shall make us haith sae blithe an' vv'itty 

Till ye forget ye're aiild an' gatty. 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty. 

Sweet ane an' twenty ! 

But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast. 
An' now the sinn keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quit my chanter; 
Sae T subscribe mysel in haste. 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 



THE TWA HERDS. [.April, 1785.] 

Blockheads iviih reason wicked wits abhor, 
Bui Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war. 

Pope. 



O A' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel feed on ]iastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox. 

Or worrying tykes? 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykei.? 



The twa best herds in a' the wast. 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty summers past, 

O dool to tell ! 
Hac had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themsel. 



O, Moodic, man, and wordy Russel, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will 
whistle. 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I hae miu'. 

O, Sirs, whae'er wad hac expeckit. 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the i)laid. 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit 

To be their guide. 



THE TWA HERDS. 



127 



What flock vvi' Moodie's flock could 

rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd sour Armiiiians tank 

lie let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they 
drank : 

O' sic a feast ! 

The thummart wil'-cat, brock and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smell'd their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in. 
And weel he hk'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like Russel tell'd his tale. 
His voice was heard thro' muir and 

dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail. 

O'er a' the height. 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And new-light herds could nicely drub. 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them owre the burning 
dub, 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like "villain," " hypocrite," 

Ilk ither gi'en. 
While new-light herds wi' laughin' 
spite, 

Say, " neither's liein " ! 

A' ye wha' tent the gospel fauld. 
There's Duncan deep, and Peebles 

shaul. 
But chiedy thou, apostle Auld, 
We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, hot and 
cauld, 

Till they agree. 



Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heaven to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalryrnple has been lang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, 
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae, 

And baith the Shaws, 
That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mis- 
chief. 
We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel wha'U soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel. 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, owre a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsels and your skills, 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. 
And Learning in a woody dance. 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd owre the seas to France; 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excellence, 
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M'Maith, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can 
glance. 

May a' pack aff. 



128 TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE's PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. 17 tk, 1783. 

While at tlie stook the shearers cowr 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scour 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My Musie, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban, an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they shou'd blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle \\ i' a pack so sturdy, 

Wlia, if they ken me. 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse hell upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighin', cantin' grace-pri)ud faces. 
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces. 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun, misca't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than monie scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus'd him; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've us'd him? 

See him, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

l>y worthless skellums, 
An' no a Muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums? 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 129 

■X- — ■ — — -— 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be. 
Nor am I even the thing I could he, 
But, twenty times, I rather would he 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass. 
An honest man may like a lass. 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause. 

He'll still disdain. 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some we ken. 



They tak religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. 
For what? to gie their malice skouth 

On some jiuir wight. 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin straight. 

All hail. Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough impertect line 

Thus daurs to name theej 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 



Tho' hlotcht an' foul wi' monie a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy tiain, 

Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join wi' those, 
Who l)oldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes: 



In spite o' crowds, in s])ile o' mobs, 
In spile of uiulerinining jobs, 
In spile o' dark banditti slabs 

At worth an' merit. 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 



HOL V WILLIE'S PR A YER. 



O Avr ! my dear, my native ground ! 
Within thy presbyterial bound, 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers. 
As men, as Christians too, lenown'd. 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd, 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd; 

(Which gies you honour,) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom 1 have ta'en, 
An' if impertinent I've been. 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



Thou, wha in the Heavens dost 

dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel'. 
Sends ane to heaven and ten to bell, 

A' for thy glory. 
And no for onie guid or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might. 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night. 
That I am here afore thy sight. 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burnin an' a shinin light, 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation. 
That I should get sic exaltation? 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation. 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burnin' lake, 
Where damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 



Yet I am here a chosen sample. 

To show thy grace is great and ample; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example 

To a' thy flock. 

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear. 
When drinkers drink, and swearers 

swear. 
And singin there and dancing here, 

Wi' great an' sma' : 
For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a'. 

But yet, O Lord ! confess I must. 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust, 
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we ;;re dust, 

Detil'd in sin. 

O Lord ! yestreen, thou kens, 'U'i' Meg — 

Thy pardon I sincerely beg, 

O ! may it ne'er be a livin plague 

To my dishonour. 
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg . 

Again upon her. 



EPITAPH ON- HOL Y WILLIE. 



131 



Besides I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow; 

But Lord, that Friday I was fou, 

When I came near her, 
Or else thou kens thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn. 
Lest he owre high and proud should 
turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
If sae, thy hand maun e'en he borne, 

Until thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race; 
But God confound their stubborn face. 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace. 

An' public shame. 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts. 
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at 

cartes. 
Yet has sae monie takin arts, 

Wi' grit an' sma', 
Frae God's ain piiest the people's 
hearts 

He steals awa'. 

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 



O' laughin at us; 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 
Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r, 
Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr; 
Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it 
bare, 

Upo' their heads; 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

O Lord my God, that Glib-tongued 

Aiken, 
My very heart and soul arc quakin, 
To think how we stood svveatin, shakin, 

An' p — d wi' dread, 
While he, wi' hingin lips an' snakin' 
Held up his head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him; 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. 

Nor hear their pray'r: 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane, 
An' a' the glory shall be thine. 

Amen, Amen. 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 



HKt«E Holy Willie's sair worn clay 

Taks up its last abode; 
His saul has taen some other way, 

1 fear the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun. 

Poor silly body, sec him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye; 



But baud your nine-tail cat a-wee. 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore. 

For pity ye have nane; 
Justice, alas ! has gien him o'er. 

And mercy's day is gane. 

But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are. 
Look something to your credit; 

A coof like him wad si.iin your name, 
If it were keut ye did it. 



132 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 



ON SCARINCx SOME WATER FOWL 

IN LOCH-TURIT, A '.VILS SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. 



Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
Fur Mie your wat'ry haunt forsake? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly? 
Why disturb ytmr social joys, 
Parent, tilial, kindred ties? — 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature's gifts to all are free: 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton la%'e; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud, usurpirig foe. 
Would be lord of all below; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride. 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 



In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong Necessity compels. 
But Man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for Ins jileasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to waiurring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'Ict strays. 
Far from human haunts and ways; 
All on Nature you depend. 
And life's poor season peaceful spend 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man witii all his pow'rs you scorn; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE, 



RECOMMENDING A BOY. 



I HOI.D it. Sir, my liounden duty. 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias Laird M'Gaun, 
Was here to lure the lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 

An' wad hae don't aff han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks. 

As faith I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' cnit auld Crummie's nicks, 
An' tellin' lies about them; 
As lieve then I'd have then. 

Your clerkship he should sair. 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 

An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, 

The boy might learn to swear; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

1 hae na onie fear. 
Ye'll catechize him every quirk, 



Mosgaville, May j, jySb. 

An' shore him weel wi' hell; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Ay \\ hen ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 

The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I ha'e gi'en. 
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the Warld's worm: 
To try to get the twa to gree. 
An' name the airles an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form: 
I ken he weel a snick can draw. 

When simple Ixxlies let him; 
An' if a Devil lie at a', 

In faith he's sure to gpt him. 
To phrase you an' jiraise you. 

Ye ken your Lauieat scorns: 
The pray'r slill, you share still. 
Of grateful Minstrel, burns. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 



i?3 



EPISTLl': TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OF CRAirfEN-r.IU-AN, IN ANSWER TO AN OIII.IGINO LRTTRU IIK SICNT IN THIC CnMMKNCKMI'.NT 
OK MY I'OlCr.C CAUItKR. 



Siu, o'er a f^ill I gat your card, 

I trow it made nic [iroud; 
" See vvlia laks notice o' the liard ! " 

1 lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

"Now deil-ina-care alxnit tlicir jaw, 
The senseless, f^awky iiiillion; 

I'll cock my nose ai)oon llu-in a', 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Uillan ! " 

'r«as noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel, 
To grant your liigli ])rotection : 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' vveel, 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho', by liis banes wha in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 



On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dui), 
I imlc|)endent stand ay. - - 

And when liiosc legs to gude, warm kail, 
VVi' welcome canna bear me; 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

l\w\ barley-scone shall cheer mo. 

I leaven s])are you laiig to kiss tliebreath 

()' monie llow'ry sinmiers! 
And bless your boiiie lasses baith, 

I'm tald tiiey're lo(jsome kinnners! 

And ( 'lod i)less young Uunaskin's laird, 
The blossom of our gentry! 

And may he wear an auld man's l":ard, 
A credit to his country. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL. 

liXl'liMl'oUlC I.lNliS ON KICTUKNINO A NEWSPAl'KR. 

ElUsland, Monday Evening 

Your News and Review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming; 
The ])apers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No miirdcfs or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hcwnrs, 

Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir; 
Lul of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick comjiletc, 

I'll boklly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-<|uill too rude is to tell all your goodncs; 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet; 
Would to Ood I had one like a beam rf the sun, 

And then all the worlil, Sir, should know it 1 



134 



TO A LAD V. 



VERSES 



INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE EARL's PICTURE. 



Whose is that nolile, dauntless brow? 

And wliose tliat eye of tire? 
And whose that generous princely mien 

Even rooted foes admire? 

Stranger, to justly shew that brow, 

And mark that eye of lire, 
Would take His hand, whose vernal 
tints 

His other works admire. 



liright as a cloudless summer sun, 
With slately jiort he moves; 

His guardian seraph eyes with awe 
The noble ward he loves. 



Among the illustrious .Scottish sons 
That chief thou may'st discern; 

Mark Scotia's fond reluming eye, 
It dwells upon Glencairn. 



TO TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 



HKALTHtothe Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's siliyl leaf 

'lliis natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metes threescore eleven. 
And I can tell Ihat bounteous Heaven 
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka I'oet) 
On thee a tack o' seven tim'»s seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 
Thylengthcn'd days on thisblestmorrow. 
May desolation's lang-tecth'd harrow, 



Nine miles an hour. 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 
In brunstane stoure — 

But for thy friends, and they are monie, 
llailh hiincsl men and lassies boiiie. 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee ! 

I'areweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daurna steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye 
fear ye; 

For me, shame fa' me. 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While BUKNS they ca'me. 



TO A LADY, 



WITH A PRESENT Ol'' A VMK OF DRINKING GLASSES. 



Fair Empress of the Poet's soul. 

And (^iieeii of Poetesses; 
Clarinda, take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And till them high with generous juice. 
As generous as your mind; 



And pledge me in the gencraus toast — 
" The whole of human kind ! " 

" To those M'ho love us ! " — second fill; 

ISut not to those whom we love; 
Lest we love those who love not us! 

A third — "to thee and me, Love!" 



SKETCH. 135 

THE VOWELS. 

A TALE. 

'TwAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great. 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount. 

And call the trembling Vowels to account. 

First enterM A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his v/ay, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race 
The jostling tears ran down his honest face! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stiiies keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next, the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd golhic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground! 

In rueful a]iprehension enter'd (), 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert. 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art j 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and l)rother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
The pedant in his left hand clulch'tl him fast. 
In helpless infants' tears he di])p'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



SKETCH. 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets : 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive I'amour; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 



136 PROLOGUE. 



Much specious lore, but little understood; 
Veneerin<; oft outslunes the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 
Still maldng work his selhsh craft must mend. 



PROLOGUE 

FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit-night, Dumfries. [1790.] 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 

How this new ])lay an' that new sang is comin'? 

Why is outlandish stuff sae mcikle courted? 

Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported? 

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 

Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? 

For comedy abroad he need na toil, 

A fool and knave are plants of every soil; 

Nor need lie hunt as far as Rome and Greece 

To gather matter for a serious piece; 

There's themes enow in Caledonian story, 

Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 

Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? 
Where are the Muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; 
And after monie a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 
O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene, 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all tli' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil. 
As able and as cruel as the devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife. 
Perhaps, if bowds row right, and Right succeeds. 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae genenuis done, if a' the land 
Would tak the Muses' servants by the hand; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend theru. 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best ! 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 



137 



Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'U soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his hack ! 

For us and for our stage should onie spier, 
" Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this hustle here?" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my hrow, 
We hae tlie honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'U ever find us. 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks. 



ELEGY ON T 

SK 
For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn. 
E'en let them die — for that they 're born : 
But oh ! prodigious to refiec' ! 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a ])ickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head. 
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ! 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our gudevvife's wee birdy cocks; 
The tane is game, a bludie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin. 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet. 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, 
And gied you a' baith gear an' meal; 



HE YE.\R 1788, 

ETCH. 

E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck. 

Ye bonie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien'; 
in Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'U ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very novvt an' sheep, 
How dowf and davielv they creep; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
Thou now has got thy daddie's chair, 
Nae hand-cufFd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd 

Regent, 
But, like himsel, a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man : 
As muckle better as you can. 
January i, 1789. 



VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF 
FERGUSSON THE POET, 

IN A COPY OF THAT AtHHOR's WORKS 
PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19TH, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder iirother in the Muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures? 



138 



DELIA. 



LAMENT {see Note), 

WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 

O'er the mist -shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, 
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, 

What woes wring my heart while intently surveying 
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. 

Ye foam-crested liillows, allow me to wail, 

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore; 

Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale. 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her. 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

Mo more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, 

I haste with the storm to a far distant shore; 
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



Fair the face of orient day. 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay. 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; 
But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 



DELIA. 

AN ODE. 



The flower-enamour'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 

O let me steal one liquid kiss ! 

For oh ! my soul is parch'd with love ! 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

Thk lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. 

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, 
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train; 

Or mus'd whore limpid streams, once hallow'd well. 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 



SIR JAMES HUiVTER BLAIR. 1 39 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks. 

The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry slcy, 
The groaning trees untimely shed their loci'cs, 

And shooting meteors caugiit the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in tlie livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately P'orm, 
In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 

And niix'd her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas C'aledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 
Her form majestic droup'd in ]iensive woe, 

The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave ! " 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save. 

Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride \ 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tear. 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's ciy; 
The drooping arts surround their patron's bier. 

And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. — ■ 

"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. — 

"My patriot falls, Imt shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name? 
No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 

And future ages hear his growing fame. 

"And I will join a mother's tender cares, 

Thri)' future times to make his virtues last, 
That distant years may boast of other Blairs," — 

She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 



140 



THE POET'S WELCOME. 



TO MISS FERRIER, 



ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR. 



Nae heathen name shall I prefix 

Frae Pindus or Parnassus; 
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks, 

For rhyme-inspiring lasses. 

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three 
Made Homer deep their debtor; 

But, gi'en the body half an ee, 
Nine Ferriers wad done better ! 

Last day my mind was in a bog, 
Down George's Street I stoited; 



A creeping cauld prosaic fog 
My very senses doited. 

Do what I dought to set her free, 

My saul lay in the mire; 
Ye turned a neuk — I saw your ee — 

She took the wing like fire ! 

The mournfu' sang I here enclose, 

In gratitude I send you; 
And wish and pray in rhyme sincere, 

A' gude things may attend you ! 



WRITTEN ON THE BL\NK LEAF 

OF A COPY OF THE FIRST EDITION [OF HIS POEMS], WHICH I PRESENTED 
TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere; 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes. 
One friendly sigh fi)r him, he asks no more. 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes. 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE CHILD- 



Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter fa' 

me. 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me. 
My sweet wee lady. 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 
Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonie Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee. 
As dear an' near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as gude will. 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' h«;ll. 



What tho' they ca' me fornicator. 
An' tease my name in kintra clatter : 
The mair they talk I'm kent the better. 

E'en let them clash; 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter 

To gie ane fash. 



Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint, 

My funny toil is now a' tint, 

Sin' thou came to the warl asklent. 

Which fools may scoff at; 
In my last plack thy part's be in't — 

The better haff o't. 



LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT. 



141 



An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee, 
A lovin' father Til be to thee, 

If thou be spar'd; 
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll ee thee. 

An' thiiik't vveel war'd. 



Gude grant that thou may aye inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, 
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 

Without his failins, 
'Twill please me niair to hear an' see't, 

Than stockit mailins. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, 



ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 



O Goudie! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin' looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin' 'glowrin' Superstition, 
Waes me! she's in a sad condition; 
Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician, 

To see her water; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Au!d Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco' ripple; 
Haste, gie her name up i' tiie chapel, 



Nigh unto death; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple. 
An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gaen in a galloping consumption, 

Not a' the quacks, %\ith a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeblepulsegies strong presumption. 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the Lord's ain folks gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, GLENCONNER. 



Alil.D comrade dear and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner; 
Hiiw do you this blae eastlin wind. 
That's like to blaw a body blind? 
J. ir ine,jiiy faculties are frozen, 
Wy dearest member nearly dozen'd. 
Tve sent you here by Johnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; 
Sini'.h, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 
An' in the depth of Science mir'd. 
To common sense ihey now appeal. 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel. 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly. 
Peruse them, an' return them quickly, 



For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house. 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin'. 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston; 
Till by an' by, if I haud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel-groan: 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my een up lil<e a ]ivet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gaspin in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a sinning light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men : 
When bending down wi' auld gray hairs. 
Beneath the load of years and cares. 
May He who made him still support him. 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him. 



142 



ePistle erom esopus to mart a. 



His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' \vi' grace and gear ! 
My auld school-fellow, Preacher 
Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason Billie, 
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; 
If he's a parent, lass or i)oy. 
May he be dad, and Meg the niither 
Just hve-and-forty years thegither ! 
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 
I'm taulil he offers very faiily. 
All' Lord, remember singing Sannock, 
\Vi'hale-breeks,saxpeiice,an'a bannock. 
An' next, my aukl acquaintance, Nancy, 
Since she is (itted to her fancy; 
An' her kind stars hae airted till her 
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 
My kindest, best respects I sen' it. 
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet ; 



Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, 
For, faith, they'll aiblins tin' them 

fashious : 
To grant a heart is fairly civil, 
IkU to grant a maidenhead's the devil. — 
An' lasdy, Jamie, for yoursel. 
May guardian angels tak a spell. 
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 
But first, before you see heav'n's glory, 
May ye get monie a merry story, 
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, 
An' aye enough o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you. 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist pt)or Simson a' ye can, 
Ve'U fin' him just an honest man; 
Sae I conclude and quat my chanter, 
Yours, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Rant£r. 



EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 

From those drear solitudes and frowzy cells. 

Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; 

Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast. 

And deal from iron hands the spare repast; 

Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, 

Blush at the curious stranger pcejiing in; 

Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar. 

Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more; 

Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, 

Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 

F"rom these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, 

To tell Maria her Ksopus' fate. 

" Alas ! I feel I am no actor here ! " 

'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear! 

Prepare, Maiia, for a horrid tale 

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; 

Will make thy hair, iho' erst from gipsy poll'd, 

By barber woven, and by barber sold, 

1 hough twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, 

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; 

Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms. 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms; 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, 

And steal from mc Maria's prying eye. 



EPISTLE FROM E SOP US TO MARIA. 1 43 

Bless'd Highland bonnet ! Once my proudest dress, 

Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. 

I see her wave thy towering plunies afar, 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. 

I see her face the tirst of Ireland's sons. 

And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; 

The crafty colonel leaves the tartan'd lines, 

P'or other wars, where he a hero shines : 

The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, 

Who owns a IJushby's heart without the head. 

Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display, 

That r'f «/, 7'/V//, vici, is his way; 

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks. 

And dreads a meeting \\()rse than Woolwich hulks; 

Though there, his heresies in church and state 

Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate: 

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. 

And dares the public like a noontide sun. 

(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger, 

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger? 

Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns's venom when 

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, — 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 

Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine; 

The idiot strum of vanity bemused. 

And even th' abuse of poesy aliused; 

W^ho call'd her verse a parish workhouse, made 

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray 'd?) 

A workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, 

And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 

In durance vile here must I wake and weep, 

And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep; 

That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, 

And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore. 

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour, 

Must earth no rascal, save thyself, endure? 

Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell. 

And make a vast monopoly of hell? 

Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse. 

The vices also, must they club their curse? 

Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 

Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all? 

Maria, send me to thy griefs and cares ; 
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls. 
Who on my fair-one satire's vengeance hurls? 
Who calls thee pert, affected, vain coquette, 
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 
Who says that fool alone is not thy due. 
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true? 



^44 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 

And dare the war with all of woman born : 

For \\ho can write and speak as thou and I? 

My periods that decyphering defy. 

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply, 

ON A SUICIDE. 

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, 

Planted by Satan's dibble — 
Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' 

To save the Lord the trouble. 

A FAREWELL. 

Farewell, dear Friend ! may guid luck hit you, 
And, mang her favourites admit you ! 
If e'er Detraction shore to sniit you. 

May nane believe him! 
And ony De'il that thinks to get you. 

Good Lord deceive him. 

THE FAREWELL. 



Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parenlal cnre; 
A faittifal brother I have left. 
My ]);irt in him thou'lt share! 
Adieu too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom frien'; 
When kindly you mind me, 
O then befriend my Jean ! 



When bursting anguish tears my heart, 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part? 
Thou weeping ansvv'rest " no ! " 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu! 
I, wilh a much-indebted tear. 
Shall still remember you! 
All-hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore! 
It rustles, and whistles, 
I'll never see thee more ! 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF F/.VTRY: 

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN 
MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 

FiNTRY, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life. 

Are ye as idle's I am? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kiiitra fleg, 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. 

And ye shall see me try him. 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 145 

I'll sinjj the zeal Drunilanrij^ Ijears 
Who left the all-iiiiportaiit cares 

Of princes aiui Iheir darlings; 
And, bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands vvi' vvahster loons, 

And kissing barelit cariins. 

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lit)ns; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd, 
And VVesterha' and Ilopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Th' unmannei'd dust might soil his star; 

IJesides, he hated bleeding; 
But left behind him heroes bright. 
Heroes in Caesarean fight. 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

O! for a throat like huge Mons-Meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner I 
Heroes and heroines commix. 
All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal lionour. 

M' Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!) 

Led on the loves and graces: 
She won each gaping burgess' heart. 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdanroch led a light-arni'd corps. 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder; 
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 
And bared the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory : 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground. 
High-waved his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ! 



:46 , EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 

While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid I.awson's port eutrench'd his hold. 

And tlireaten'd worse damnation. 

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Surpasses my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large. 
With furious speed rush to the charge, 
Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of l>loody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd. 
As Murtherat his thrajijile shor'd, 

And Jiell mix'd in the brulzie. 

As Highland crags by thunder cleft, 
When lightnings tire the stormy lift, 

Hurl down with crashing rattle; 
As flames among a hundred woods; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods; 

Such is the rage of battle ! 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers: 
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, 
When all his wintry liillows pour 

Against the Duchan BuUers 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 
Deoarted Whigs enjoy the tight, 

And think on former daring: 
The muflled niurtherer of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls, 

All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Craham, 

Auld Covenanters shiver. 
(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose! 
Now death and hell engulf thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns. 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; 

But Fate the word has spoken, 
For woman's wit and strength o' man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can ! 

The Tory ranks are broken. 



ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 



147 



O that my een were flowing burns ! 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs' undoing! 
That I might greet, that 1 might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly. 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 

What Whig but melts for good Sir James? 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor! 
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulleney save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave! 

And Stewart, bold as Hector ! 

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow; 
And Thurlovv giowl a curse of woe; 

And Melville melt in wailing ! 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice I 
And Burke shall sing, " O Prince, arise. 

Thy power is all-prevailing ! " 

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
Hs only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely ! 
So, when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends. 

And sober chirps securely. 



STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 



How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace, 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted — 
The very name of Douglas blasted — 

His that inverted glory. 



Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt : 
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name, 
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, 

Fromaught that'sgood exempt. 



VERSES 



ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG. 



As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 

Ae smiling simmer-morn I stray'd. 
And traced its bonie howes and haughs. 

Where linties sang and lambkins 
play'd. 
I sat me down upon a craig, 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
When, from the eddying deep below, 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 



Dark, like the frowning rock, his 
brow. 

And troubled, like his wintry wave, 
And deep, as sughs the boding wind 

Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave — 
" And came ye he.-e, my son," he cried, 

" To wander in my birken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 

Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. 



148 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 



" There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 

^'e might hae seen me in my pride, 
When a' my banks sae bravely saw 

Their woody pictures in my tide; 
When hanging beech and spreading elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and cool, 
And stately oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across the 
pool; 

" When glinting, through the trees, 
appear'd 

The wee w hite cot aboon the mill, 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and cauld. 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast its lane." 



" Alas ! " said I, " what ruefu' chance 

Has twined ye o' your stately trees? 
Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? 

Hasstripp'd the cleedingo' your braes 7 
Was it the bitter eastern blast. 

That scatters blight in early spring? 
Or was't the wil'tire scorch'd their 
boughs. 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting? '' 

" Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied; 

" It blew na here sae tierce and fell, 
And on my dry and halesome banks 

Nae canker-woms get leave to dwell : 
Man ! cruel man I " the genius sigh'd — 

As through the cliffs he sank him 
dow n — 
" The worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees, 

That reptile wears a ducal crown." 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 



Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie. 

We never heed. 
But take it like the unback'd filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter, 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart ! Hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' this wild warl', 
Until you on a crummock driddle 

A gray-hair'd carl. 

Come wealth, come poorlith, late or 

soon, 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in 

tune. 
And screw your temper-pins aboon 

A fifth or mair, 
The melancholious, lazie croon, 
O' cankrie care. 



May still your life from day to day 
Nae " lente largo " in the play, 
But " allegretto forte " gay 

Harmonious flow 
A sweeping,kindling, bauld strathspey — 

Encore ! Bravo 1 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
An' never think o' right an' wrang 

By square an' rule, 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand-waled curse keep hard in 

chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fire-side discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless 

brither, 
r th' ither warl' if there's anitTier, 
An' that there is I've little syvi^^her 

About the matter; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 
I'se ne'er bid better. 



ON STIRLING. 



149 



We've faults and failings — granted 

clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonie squad priests wyte them 
sheerly 

For our grand fa'; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 
God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers. 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers. 
The witching cursed delicious blinkers 

Ilae put me hyte. 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnin spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high 

sweariti' — 
An' every star within my hearin' ! 
An' by her een wha was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er forget; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 
Mossgiel, 30/A October, 1786. 



My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie vvhare I tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted. 

Some cantraip hour, 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then vive /' amour ! 

Faites nies haisseviains respectueuse, 

'I'o sentimental sister Susie, 

An' honest Lucky; no to roose you, 

Ye may be proud. 
That sic a couple Fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, 
An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae 

treasure; 
But when in Ayr, some half hoar's 
leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 
To call at Park. 

Robert Burns. 



EPITAPH ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER.. 
FIere lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 
To those who for her loss are grieved, 

This consolation's given — 
She's from a world of woe relieved. 

And blooms a rose in heaven. 

EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON. 

Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 

And empty all his barrels : 
He's blest — if, as he brew'd, he drink, 

In upright honest morals. 

ON STIRLING. 
Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd. 
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd; 
But now unroof'd their palace stands. 
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands; 
The injured Stuart line is gone, 
A race outlandish fills their throne. 
An idiot race to honour lost. 
Who know them best, despise them most. 



ISO 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB. 



LINES 

ON BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES WOULD AFFECT HIS PROSPECTS. 

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name 

Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; 

Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, 

Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'lis a libel? 

REPLY TO THE MINISTER OF GLADSMUIR. 

Like Esop's lion. Burns says, sore I feel 
All others scorn — but damn that as!»'s heel. 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 



In this strange land, this uncouth 

clime, 
A land unknown to prose or rhyme; 
Where words ne'er ciost the Muse's 

heckles, 
Nor limpit in poetic shackles; 
A land that prose did never view it. 
Except when drunk he stacher't through 

it; 
Here, amhush'd by the chimla cheek, 
Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 
I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 
I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — 
The red peat gleams, a tiery kernel, 
Enhusked by a fog infernal : 
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 
I sit and count my sins by chapters; 
For life and sjuink like ither Christians, 
I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 
Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 
Wi' nae ken face but Jenny Geddes. 
Jenny, my Pegasean piide ! 
Dovvie she saunters down Nithside, 
And ay a westlin leuk she throws. 
While tears hap o'er her auld brown 

nose! 



Was it for this, wi' canny care, 

Thou biire the Bard through many a 

shire? 
At howes or hillocks never stumbled. 
And late or early never grumbled? — 
O, had I power like inclination, 
I'd heeze thee up a constellation. 
To canter with the Sagitarre, 
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; 
Or turn the pole like any arrow; 
Or, when auld Phcebus bids good- 
morrow, 
Down the zodiac urge the race, 
And cast dirt on his godship's face; 
For L could lay my bread and kail 
He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — 
Wi' a' this care and a' this grief. 
And sma', sma' pros[)ect of relief. 
And nought but peat reek i' my head. 
How can I write what yecan read? — 
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 
Ye'll find me in a better tune; 
But till we meet and weet our whistle^ 
Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 



Robert Burns. 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETV. 



Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 
Unskaith'dby hunger'd Highland boors; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 



She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 
Faith, you and Apjilecross were right 
To keep the Highland hounds in sight, 
I doubt na' ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the watei 



TO MR. JOHN KENNED Y. 



151 



Than up amang thae lakes and seas 
They'll mak' what rules and laws they 

please; 
Some daring Hancock, or a P'ranklin, 
May set their Highland bluida ranklin'; 
Some Washington again may head them, 
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them. 
Till Ciod knows w hat may lie effected 
When by such heads and hearts di- 
rected; 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sack- 

ville. 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile. 
An' whare will ye get Howes and 

Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation, 
An' save the honour o' the nation? 

They an' be d d ! what right hae 

they 
To meat or sleep, or light o' day ! 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom. 
But what your lordship likes to gie them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; 
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and 

bailies, 
I canna' say but they do gaylies; 
They lay aside a' tender mercies, 
JtDie I, Anno MiDidi, 5790. 



An' tirl the hallions to the birses; 

Yet while they're only poind't and 

herriet. 
They'll keep their stuI)l)orn Highland 

spirit; 
But smash them ! crash them a' to 

spails ! 
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 
The young ilogs, swinge them to the 

labour ! 
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober! 
The hizzies, if they're aughtHns fawsont. 
Pet them in Drurydane be lesson'd ! 
An' if the wives an' diity ])rats 
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts 
Klaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', 
I'rightin' awa your deucks an' geese, 
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 
An gar the tatter'cl gypsies pack 
Wi' a' their i)astarts on their back ! 
Go on, my lord ! I lang to meet you. 
An' in my house at hame to greet you; 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle. 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle. 
At my right han' assign'd your seat 
'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate, — 
Or if you on your station tarrow 
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 
A seat, Pm sure, ye're weel deservin't; 
An' till ye come — Your humble servant, 
Beelzebub. 



TO MR. JOHN KKNNEDY. 



Now Kennedy, if foot or ho-se 

E'er bpng you in by Mauchline Corss, 

Lord man, there's lasses there wad force 

A hermit's fancy, 
\nd down the gate in faith they're worse 

And mair unchancy. 

But as I'm sayin' please step to Dow's 
And taste sic gear as Johnny brews. 
Till some bit callan brings me news 

That you are there. 
And if we dinna had a bouze 

I'se ne'er drink mail. 

It's no I like to sit an' swallow. 
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow, 

lli.t ^Y^ m>. jiii^t V tr.iR [^.,..1 f-.llr.»r 



Wi' right ingine. 
And spunkie ance to make us mellow, 
And then we'll shine. 

Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, 
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak. 
An' sklent on poverty their joke, 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
Wi' you no friendship I will troke 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel. 
Ye hate as ill's the vera deii, 
The flinty hearts that canna feel — 

Come, Sir, here's tae you; 
Hae there's my hnun' I wiss you weel, 



i^ml mi 



jfllll 



152 ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ. 



ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., 

OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the tierce sturms among the sheltering rocks; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains. 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves. 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly; 
Where to the whistling blast and water's roar. 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 

A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 

Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 

Her doubtful lialance eyed, and sway'd her rod; 

Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow. 

She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men: 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry: 

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes. 

Rousing elate in these degenerate times; 

View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 

As guileful P'raud points out the erring way; 

While subtile Litigaticm's pliant tongue 

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: 

Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, 

And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail ! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains. 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine. 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 



153 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 



O, COULD I give thee India's wealth, 

As I this trifle send ! 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 



But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream; 
Then take what gold could never buy- 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 



NAMED ECHO. 



In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 



Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys; 

Now half yoiii- din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE. 



The night was still, and o'er the hill 
The moon shone on the castle wa' ; 

The mavis sang, while dew-drojis hang 
Around her, on the castle wa'. 



Sae merrily they danced the ring, 
Frae eenin' till the cock did craw; 

And aye the o'erword o' the spring, 
Was Irvine's bairns are bonie a'. 



ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 



A SECOND VERSION OF THE KIRK S ALARM. 



Orthodox, orthodox. 
Who believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your con- 
science — 
There's an heretic blast. 
Has been blawn i' the wast 
That what is not sense must be nonsense. 

Orthodox, 
That what is not sense must be nonsense. 

Doctoi Mac, Doctor Mac, 

Ye should stretch on a rack. 
To strike evil-doers wi' terror; 

To join faith and sense, 

Upon any pretence, 
Was heretic damnable error. 

Doctor Mac, 
Was heretic damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 
It was rash, I declare. 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; 



Provost John is still deaf 

To the church's relief. 
And orator Bob is its ruin, 

Town of Ayr, 
And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, 

Tho' your heart's like a child. 
And your life like the new-diiven snaw, 

Yet that winna save ye. 

Old Satan must have ye 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa, 

D'rymple mild. 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons. 

Seize your spiritual guns. 
Ammunition you never can need; 

Your hearts are the stuff, 

Will be powder enough. 
And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, 

Calvin's sons, 
And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. 



154 



ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 



Rumble John, Rumble John, 
Mount the steps with a gioan, 

Cry the book is with heresy ciamm'd; 
Then lug out your ladle, 
Deal brimstone like aidle. 

And roar every note o' the damn'd. 
Rumble John, 

And roar every note o' the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, 
Leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view; 
I'll lay on your head. 
That the pack ye'U soon lead. 

For puppies like you there's but few, 
Simper James, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what danger awaits? 

With a jump, yell, and howl. 

Alarm every soul, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates, 
Singet Sawnie, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates. 

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, 
Ye may slander the book, 
And the book nought the waur — let me 
tell you; 
Tho' ye're rich and look big, 
Yet lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'U hae acalf's-head o' sma' value, 

Andrew Gowk, 
And ye'U hae a calf's-head o' sma' value. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, 

Gie the doctor a volley, 
Wi' your "liberty's chain" and your wit : 

O'er Pegasus' side, 

Ye ne'er laid a stride. 
Ye only stood by when he sh — , 

Poet Willie, 
Ye only stood by when he sh — . 

Bar Steenie, Bar Steenie, 
What mean ye? what mean ye? 
If ye'U meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 



Ye may hae some pretence, man, 
To bavins and sense, man, 

Wi' people that ken you nae better, 
Bar Steenie, 

Wi' people that ken )ou nae better. 

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, 
Ye hae made but toom roose, 
O' hunting ihe wicked lieutenant; 
But the doctor's your mark. 
For the Lord's holy ark. 
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin 
in't, 

Jamie Goose, 
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin 
in't. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 

For a saunt if ye muster. 
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, 

Yet to worth let's be just, 

Royal blood ye might boast, 
If the ass were the King o' the brutes, 

Davie Bluster, 
If the ass were the King o' the brutes. 

Muirland George, Muirland George, 

Whom the Lord made a scourge, 
To claw common sense for her sins ; 

If ill manners were wit, 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor doctor at ance, 

Muirland George, 
To confound the poor doctor at ance. 

Cessnockside, Cessnockside, 
Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 

O' manhood but sma' is your share! 
Ye've the figure, it's true. 
Even our foes maun allow. 

And your friends daurna say he hae mair 
Cessnockside, 

And your friends daurnasay ye hae mair 

Daddie .\uld, Daddie Auld, 

There's a tod i' the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the ckrk; 

Tho' ye downa do skailh, 

Ye'U be in at the death. 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark, 
Daddie Auld, 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark. 



ELEGY ON PEG NICHOLSON. 



155 



Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

\Vi' your priest-skelping turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire? 

Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, 

Yet were she even tipsy, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are, 

Poet Burns, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, 

When your pen can be spared, 
A copy o' this I bequeath, 

On the same sicker score 

I mentioned before, 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, 

Afton's Laird, 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith. 



THE SELKIRK GRACE. 

Some hae meat, and canna eat. 
And some wad eat that want it; 

But we hae meat and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thanket. 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON. 



Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 

As ever trode on aim; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

An' past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 
An' rode thro' thick an' thin; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
An' wanting even the skin. 



Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 

An' ance she bare a priest; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 
An' the priest he rode her sair; 

An'meikle oppress'd an' bruised she was, 
As priest-rid cattle are. 



ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 



IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 



Sweet naivete of feature. 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf. 

Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 



Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected. 
Spurning nature, torturing art; 

Loves and graces all rejected. 
Then indeed thou'dst act a part. 



THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 



The Solemn League and Covenant 

Now brings a smile, now brings a tear; 

But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs : 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer. 



ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 



Talk not to me of savages 
From Afiic's burning sun, 

No savage e'er could rend my heart, 
As, Jessy, thou hast done. 



But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight. 
Not ev'n to view the heavenly choir, 

Would be so blest a sight. 



EPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth 
Can turn Death's dart aside? 

It is not purity and worth, 
Else Jessy had not died. 

THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS. 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky. 
Yet still one Seraph's left on earth. 

For Jessy did not die. 

THE TOAST. 

Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast, a toast divine; 
Give the Poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name; 
Then thou mayest freely boast, 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 

As cauld a wind as ever blew, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF 



OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MORE S WORKS, WHICH SHE HAD GIVEN HIM. 



Thou flattering mark of friendship kind, 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor : 
Though sweetly female every part. 
Yet such a head, and more the heart. 

Does both the sexes honour. 
She show'd her tastes refined and lust 



When she selected thee, -- 
Yet deviating own I must, 
For so approving me. 

But kind still, I'll mind still 

The giver in the gift; 
I'll bless her and wiss her 
A Friend above the Lift. 



WILLIE CHALMEJiS. 



157 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

WRITTEN IN THE HOUSE OF MR. SYME. 

There's death in the cup — sae beware ! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching; 
But vvha can avoid the fell snare? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching ! 

THE BOOK-WORMS. 

Through and through the inspired leaves, 
Ye maggots, make your windings; 

But, oh ! respect his lordship's taste, 
And spare his golden bindings. 

ON ROBERT RIDDEL. 

To Riddel, much-lamented man. 

This ivied cot was dear; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth? 

This ivied cot revere. 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 



Wl' braw ncv branks in mickle pride. 

And eke a braw new brechan, 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush, 

The doited beastie stammers; 
Then up he gets, and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes; 
I am nae stranger to your fame 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonie face sae mild and sweet, 

His honest heart enamours. 
And faith ye'll no be lost a' whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair. 

And Honour safely back her, 
And Modesty assume your air, 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers; 
Nae wonder then they've fe.tal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 



I doubt na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd pri-JStie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

And band upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you. 

His lexicons and grammars; 
The feeling heart's the royal blue, 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, 

May warsle for your favour; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard, 

And host up some palaver. 
My bonie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers. 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom. 
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, 

For de'il a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon. 

And fructify your amours, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



158 



REMORSE. 



TO JOHN TAYLOR. 



With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying. 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 



Obliging Vidcan fell to work, 
1 hrew by his coat and bonnet. 

And did Sols business in a crack; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye ''/ulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! 

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief! 

For lack o' thee Fve lost my lass ! 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass ! 

I see the children of afiliction 

Unaided, thro' thy curs'd restriction. 

Fve seen the oppressor's cruel smile. 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore. 

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

R. B. Kyle. 

THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES. 

Yk sons of sedition, give ear to my song, 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng, 
With Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 

These verses ivere handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he en- 
dorsed the subjoined reply : 

BURNS — EXTEMPORE. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song. 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 

From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt? 



REMORSE. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace. 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance, the mind 

Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine;" 



"//V VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE." 159 

But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — "I51ame thy foolish self! " 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments. 
There's not a keener la.>h ! 
Lives there a man so lirm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 
O, happy ! happy ! enviable man i 
O glorious magnanimity of soul ! 

THE TOAD-EATER. 

What of earls with whom you have supt, 

And of dukes that you dined with yestreen? 
I,ord ! a louse. Sir, is still but a louse, 

Though it crawl on the curls of a Queen. 



TO 

Sir, 

Yours this moment I unseal. 
And faith I am gay and hearty ! 

To tell the truth an' shame the Deil 
I am as fu' as Bartie : 



Mossgiel, 1786. 

But foorsday. Sir, my promise leal 

Expect me o' your party. 
If on a beastie I can speel, 

Or hurl in a cartie. R. B. 



"IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE." 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 
Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear; 
Above that world on wings of love I rise, 
I know its worst — and can that worst despise. 
"Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd; unpitied, unredrest, 
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest." 
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward ! o'erj^ays them all ! 

"THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE." 

Though fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me. 
She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — 



l6o TAM THE CHAPMAN. 



I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, 
But if success I must never find, 

Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 
I'll meet thee with an undaunted nlihd. — 



''I BURN, I BURN." 

" I BURN, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd coirn 

By driving winds the crackling flames are borne," 

Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night ; 

Now bless the hour which charm'd my guilty sight. 

In vain the laws their feeble force oppose : 

Chain'd at his feet they groan. Love's vanquish'd foes 

In vain religion meets my sinking eye; 

I dare not combat — but I turn and fly; 

Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire; 

Love grasps his scorpions — stifled they expire! 

Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne. 

Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone : 

Each thought intoxicated homage yields. 

And riots wanton in forbidden fields ! 

By all on high adoring mortals know ! 
By all the conscious villain fears below ! 
By your dear self! — the last great oath I swear; 
Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear ! 



EPIGRAM ON A NOTED COXCOMB. 

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast. 

His chicken heart so tender; 
But build a castle on his head, 

His skull will prop it under. 



TAM THE CHAPMAN. 

As Tarn the Chapman on a day 

Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, 

Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight sae famous, 

And Death was nae less pleased wi' Thomas, 

Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, 

And there blaws up a hearty crack; 

His social, friendly, honest heart, 

Sae tickled Death they could na part : 

Sae after viewing knives and garters, 

Death takes him hame to gie him quarters. 



FRAGMENT. l6l 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSV STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
Yoti save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An Angel could not die. 



FRAGMENT. 



Now health forsakes that angel face, 
Nae mair my dearie smiles; 

Pale sickness withers ilka grace, 
And a' my hopes beguiles. 



The cruel powers reject the prayer 

I hourly mak' for thee; 
Ye heavens, how great is my despair, 

How can I see him dee ! 



THERE'S NAETHIN LIKE THE HONEST NAPPY. 



There's naethin like the honest nappy ! 
Whaur'll ye e'er see men sae happy. 
Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 

'Tweeu moin an' morn. 
As them wha like to taste the drappie 

In glass or horn. 



I've seen me daez't upon a time; 
I scarce could wink or see a styme; 
Jast ae hauf mutchkin dues me prime, 

Ought less is little. 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme 

As gleg's a whittle ! 



PROLOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT-NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL l6, I787. 

When by a generous pul^lic's kind acclaim, 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot. 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
What breast so dead to heav'nly virtue's glow. 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe? 
Poor is the task to plea.se a barb'rous throng. 
It needs no Siddons' power in -Southern's song: 
But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar 
For genius, learning high, as great in war — 
Hail, Caledonia ! name for ever dear ! 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear ! 
Where every science, every nobler art — 
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, 
Is known; as grateful natiitns oft have found, 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream, 

Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's beam; 
Here History paints with elegance and force, 
The tide of Empire'.s fluctuating course; 



l62 



NA TURF'S LA IV. 



Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan, 
And Ilarlcv rouses all the god in man. 
When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite. 
With manly love, or female beauty bright, 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace 
Can only charm us in the second place,) 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear. 
As on this night, I've met these judges here ! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to jiulge — you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet. 
With decency and law beneath his feet, 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name; 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

O Thou, dieati I'ower ! whose empire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land, 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient lire; 
May every son be worthy of his sire; 
Firm iuay she rise with generous ilisdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; 
Still self-dependent in her native shore. 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar. 
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. 



NATURE'S LAW. 



A POEM Hl'MBLV INSCRIBED TO G. H., ESQ. 



Great tiature spoke, ohset-uant man obeyed. 



POPK. 



Let other heroes boast their scars. 

The marks of sturt and strife : 
And other Poets sing of wars. 

The j>lagnes of human life; 
Shame fa' the fun ; w\' sword and gun 

Ti> slaj) mankind like lumbei ! 
I sing his name and nobler fame, 

Wha multiplies our number. 



Great Nature spoke, with air benign, 

" Go on, ye human race ! 
This lower world I you resign; 

Be fruitful and increase. 
The liquid lire of strong desire 

Pve pour'd it in each bosom; 
Here, in this hand, does mankind stand. 

And there, is Beauty's blossom ! " 



The Hero of these artless strains, 

A lowly 15ard was he. 
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains 

With meikle miith an' glee; 
Kind Nature's care had given his share. 

Large, of the flaming current; 
And, all devout, he never sought 

To stem the sacred torrent. 

Pie felt the powerful, high behest. 

Thrill, vital, thro' and thro'; 
And sought a correspondent lyeast. 

To give obedience due; 
Propitious Powers screen'dthe young 
flow'rs. 

From mildews of abortion ; 
And lo ! the Bard, a great reward. 

Has got a double portion ! 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 



163 



Auld, cantie Coil may count the day, 

As a.inual it returns, 
The third of Libra's equal sway, 

That gave another Burns, 
With future rhymes, an' other times, 

To emulate his sire; 
To sing auld Coil in nobler style 

With mure i>oetic fire. 



Ve Powers of peace, and peaceful song, 

Look down with gracious eyes; 
And bless auld Cuila, large and long, 

With multiplying joys. 
Long may she stand tt) prop the land, 

The flow'r of ancient natit)ns; 
And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, 

To endless generations ! 



THE CATS LIKE KITCHEN. 



The cats like kitchen; 

The dogs like broo; 
The lasses like the lads weel. 

And ih' auld wives too. 



CHORUS. 

And we're a' noddin, 

Nid, nid, noddin, 
We're a' noddin fou at e'en. 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 

A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain. 

Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; 

And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs 

I view the helpless children of distress. 

With tears of imlignation I behold th' oppressor 

Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction. 

Whose unsubniilting heart was all his crime. 

Even you, ye helpless crew, I jiity you; 

Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity; 

Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds, 

Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Ruin. 

but for kind, tho' ill-retpiited friends, 

1 had been driven forth like you forlorn, 

The most detested, worthless wretch among you! 

O injur'd God ! Thy goodness has endow'd me 

With talents passing most of my compeers, 

Which I in just proportion have abus'd. 

As far surpassing other common villains. 

As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more. 



EXTEMPORE. ' 

ON PASSING A lady's CARRIAGE. [mRS. MARIA RIDDEl'S.] 

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue. 

Your speed will out-rival the dart : 
But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road, 

If your stuff be as rotten's her heart. 



164 



FRAGMENTS. 



FRAGMENTS. 



Ye hae lien a' wrang, lassie, 

Ve've lien a' wrang; 
Ye've lien in an unco bed, 

And \\i' a freniit man. 
O aiicc )e (lanced upon the Unowes, 

Anil ancc ye lightly sang — 
But in hcn-ying o' a bee byke, 

I'm rail ye've got a stang. 



O (".IF, my love brose, brose, 

(jie my love biose and butter; 
I'or nanc in C'arrick or Kyle 

Can please a lassie better. 
The luv'rock lo'es the grass, 

The muirhen lo'es the heather; 
But gie me a braw moonlight, 

And me and my love together. 



Lass, when your mither is frae hame, 

Might 1 but be sae bauld 
As come to your bower-window, 

And creep in frae the cauld, 
As come to your bower-window, 

And when it's cauld and wat, 
Warm me in thy sweet bosom; 

Fair lass, wilt thou do that? 

Young man, gif ye sliould be sae kind, 

When our gudewife's frae hame, 
As come to my bower-window, 

Whare I am laid my lane. 
And warm thee in my bosom — 

But I will tell thee what, 
The way to me lies through the kirk; 

^'oung nian, do you hear that? 



I MKT a lass, a bonie lass. 

Coming o'er the braes o' Coujier, 
Bare her leg and bright her een, 

And handsone ilka bit about her. 
Weel I wat she was a quean 

Wad made a body's mouth to water; 
Our Mess John, wi' his lyart pow. 

His haly lijjs wad lickit at her. 



O WAT ye what my minnie did. 
My minnie did, my minnie did, 

wat ye wat my minnie did, 
On 'Fysday 'teen to me, jo? 

She laid Uic in a saft bed, 

A .saft bed, a saft bed, 
She laid nie in a saft bed. 

And bade gudcca to me, jo. 

An' wat ye w hat the jiarson did. 

The parson did, the jiarson did, 
An' wat ye what the parson did, 

-V for a penny fee, jo? 
He loosed on me a lang man, 

A mickle man, a Strang man, 
He loosed on nie a lang man, 

That might hae worried me, jo. 

An' \ was but a young thing, 
A young thing, a young thing, 

An' 1 was but a young thing, 
Wi' nane to pity me, jo. 

1 wat the kirk was in the wyte. 

In the wyte, in the wyte, 
To pit a young thing in a fright. 
An' loose a man on me, jo. 



CAN ye labour lea, young man, 
An' can ye labour lea; 

Gae back the gate ye cam' again, 
Ye'se never scorn me. 

1 feed a man at Martinmas, 

Wi' arle ]iennies three; 

An' a' the faut I fan' wi' him. 

He couldna labour lea. 

The stibble rig is easy jVlough'd, 

The fallow land is free:- 
But wha wad keep the liandless coof, 

That coudna labour lea? 



EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. 



^65 



Jenny M'Craw, she lias ta'cn to the heather, 
Say, was it the covenant carried her thither; 
Jenny M'("ravv to the mountain is gane. 
Their leagues and their covenants a' she has ta'en; 
My heail and my heart, now (juo' she, are at rest, 
And as for the lave, let the Deil do his best. 



The last braw bridal that I was at, 

'Twas on a Ilallowmass day. 
And there was routh o' drink and fun, 

And inickle mirth and play. 
The l)ells tliey rang, and the earlins sang, 

And the dames danced in the ha'; 
Tiie bride went to bed wi' the silly 
bridegroom, 

In the mitlst o' her kimmers a'. 



O TlloiT, in whom we live and move. 

Who mad'st the sea and shore; 
Thy goodness constantly \\c jirove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee, I'ow'r above. 

Still grant us with such store; 
The friend we trust, the fair we love. 

And we desire no more. 



LoRn, we thank an' thee adore, 
For temp'ral gifts we little merit; 

At present we will ask no more. 

Let William llyslop give the spirit. 



TuKKE came a piper out o' l'"ifc, 
1 watna what they ca'd him; 

lie play'd our cousin Kate a spring, 
When lient a body bade him. 

And ay the mair he hotch'd an' blew, 
The mair that she forbade him. 



The black-headed eagle, 

As keen as a beagle. 
He hunted o'er height and owre howe, 

r)Ut fell in a trap 

( )u the braes o' Gema])pe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. 

Ye maggots fe.ast on Nicol's brain, 
For few sic feasts ye've gotten; 

And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, 
For de'il a bit o't's rotten. 



ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE 



SENT THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOK. 



What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer ha'f sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 



What tho' at times when T grow crou 
I gi'e their wanies a random pouse. 
Is that enough for yiui to souse 

Your servant sae? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-lousc, 

An' jr'g-the-flae. 



i66 



EXTEMPORE LINES. 



King David o' poetic brief, 

Wrought 'mangthe lasses such mischief 

As till'd his after life \\i' grief 

An' bloody rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tarn, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts, 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Sessions says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan. 

Than garren lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body. 
And sairly thole their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to veil for sport, 
How I did wi' the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times, "Robin! 
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye're blam'd ft)r jobbin'." 

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on. 
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lie; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression. 

Fell foul o' me. 



A furnicator-loun he call'd me. 

An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me; 

I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

" l)ut what the matter?" 
Quo' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

"Geld you !" quo'he," and whatforeno? 
If that your right hand, leg or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' whatfore no 

Your dearest member?" 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for that, 
GeKling's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my faut, 

A hearty flewit. 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't, 

Tho' I should rue it. 

" Or gin ye like to end the bother. 
To please us a', I've just ae ither. 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gi'e her't a' thegither, 

An' let her guide it." 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tarn, when that I saw, 
I said, " Gude night," and cam awa, 

And left the Session; 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



EXTEMPORE LINES, 



IN ANS»VER TO A CAKD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURNS, WISIUNG HIM 
TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN. 



The King's most humble servant I, 
Can scarcely spare a minute; 

But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye; 
Or else the Deil's be in it. 



My bottle is my holy pool. 

That heals the wounds o' caie an' dool, 

And jileasure is a wanton trout, 

An' ye drink it, ye'U find him out. 



THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 167 



LINES 

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY's POCKET-BOOK. [mISS KENNEDY, 
SISTER-IN-LAW OF GAVIN HAMILTON.] 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the iniscrt-ants feel the pains (hey give; 
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things wiiich were. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

CURS'i) he the man, the jioorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will l)ut by her high permission; 
Who has not six]ience l)ut in iier possession; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife iiad fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart : 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick tlie perverse bitch. 



EPITAPH ON A HENPECK'D COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam first was fool'd, 

A case that's still too connnon, 
Here lies a man a woman rul'd, 

The Devil rul'd the woman. 



EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION. 



O Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 
Whom we, this day, lament ! 

We freely wad exchang'd the wife. 
And a' been weel content. 



Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff, 
The swap we yet will do't; 

Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, 
Thou'se get the saul o' boot. 



ANOTHER. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 
When dcpriv'd of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, 
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. 

But Queen Nethcrplace, of a difPrent complexion, 
When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, 
Would have eat her dead lord on a sleiuler pretence, 
Nt)t to shew her respect, hut — to save the expense. 



VERSES 



WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. 



We came na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be niair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise. 



But when we tirl'd at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us; 

Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come. 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 



LINES 

ON BEING ASKED WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIES SO LITTl.E 
AND MRS. * * * so LARGE. 

IVriiten on a Pane of Glass in the tnn at Moffat 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 

An' why so huge the granite? 
Because (jod meant mankind should set 

That higher value on it. 



EPIGR.'\M 



WRITTEN AT INVC^ARY. 



Whoe'er he he that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case. 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 



There's naething here but Highland 
pride. 

And Highland scab and hunger; 
If Providence has sent me here, 

'Twas surely in his anger. 



A TOAST 

GWKN AT A MEETING OF THE Dl'MFRIES-SHIRE VOLUNTEERS, HELD TO COMMEMORATE 
THE ANNIVERSARY OF RODNEY'S VICTORY, APRIL I2TH, I782. 

Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a Toast, — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost : 
That we lost, did I say? nay, by heav'n, that we found, 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ! 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution; 
And longer with Politics, not to be cranim'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and Tyranny damn'd; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial ! 



TO y. RANKINE. 



169 



LINES 

SAID TO HAVE HERN WRITTEN RY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN RANKINE, 
AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO IIIM IMMEDIATELY AFIER THE 1'OET'S DECEASE. 

I Ik who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead ; 
And a green grassy iiillock hides his head; 
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 



versp:s addressed to j. rankine, 

ON HfS WRITING TO THE POET, THAT A GIRL IN THAT I'ART <)I" THE COUNTRY 
WAS WITH CHILD TO HIM. 



I AM a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, alt ho' not a'; 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae way or ither, 
ITie breaking of ae ]ioiiit, tho' sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 



I hae been in for't ance or twice. 
And winna say owre far for thrice. 
Yet never met with that surprise 

I'll at broke my rest, 
liut now a rumoui's like to rise, 

A whaiii)'s i' the nest. 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY. 

What dost thou in that mansion fair? 

Flit, dalloway, and liiul 
Some narrt)w, dirty, dungeon cave. 

The picture of thy mind ! 



ON 'fill-: SAME. 



N(i Stewart art thou, Calloway, 
The Stewarts all were brave; 

Besides, the .Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



ON rilF, .SAME. 

Bkicht ran thy line, O Galloway, 
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire ! 



TO THE SAME, 

ON THE AUTHOR liEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT. 

Spake me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand. 

For thou hast none to give. 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER. 



VERSES TO J. RANKINE. 



Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl. 
Was driving to the tither vvarl' 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And monie a guilt-bespotted lad; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station. 
From him that wears the star and garter. 
To him that wintles in a halter; 
Asham'd himsel to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches. 



" By God I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present 

them. 
Without at least, ae honest man, 
To grace this damn'd infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" Lord God ! " quoth he, " I have it nov 
There's just the man I want, i' faith," 
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och, hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels; 

But — what'll ye say ? 
These movin' things, ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! 

ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN THE 
REV. DR. B 'S VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny; 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 

POVERTY. 

In politics if thou wouldst mix, 

And mean thy fortunes be; 
Bear this in mind, — be deaf and blind, 

Let great folks hear and see. 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER 

IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRK. 

Here lie Willie INIichie's banesj 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schoolin' of your weans, 

For clever deils he'll mak th&m 1 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 



171 



LINES 



WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON SEEING HER IN THE CHARACTER 
OF YARICO IN THE DUMFRIES THEATRE, 1794. 



Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod; 
At Varico's sweet notes of grief 

The roclc with tears had flow'd. 



LINES. 



I MURDER hate by field or flood, 
Tho' glory's name may screen us; 

In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, 
Life-giving war of Venus. 



The deities that I adore 

Are social Peace and Plenty, 

I'm better pleased to make one more. 
Than be the death of twenty. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE Kllio's ARMS TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 
'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing; 
What are your landlords' rent-rolls? taxing ledgers: 
What premiers, what? even Monarchs' mighty gaugers ; 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen? 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON THE WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard. Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, 

Give me with gay Folly to live : 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, 

But Folly has raptures to give. 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Tune — " Killiecrankie." 



LORD ADVOCATE. 

HEclench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted. 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it : 
He gajied for't, he grapcd for't. 

He fand it was awa, man; 
But what his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



MR. ERSKINE. 
Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then ojien'd out his arm, man; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e. 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man : 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail. 

Or torrents owre a linn, man; 
The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the diii, man. 



172 i:ri r.irii ox A country laird. 

LINES 

WRITTEN UNDER THE I'lCTUKE OF MISS BURNS. [SEE PACE 473.] 

Ckase, ye prudes, your envious railing, 
I>ovely Burns has cliamis — confess: 

True it is, slie liad one failing, 
Had a woman ever less? 



ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oil ! had each Scot of ancient times 
Keen, Jeanie Scott, as thnu art. 
The bravest heart on Iviglish ground 
Had yieldeil like a coward. 



EPIGRAM ON CAPFAIN FRANCIS GROSE, 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. 

The Devil got notice that Cirose was a-dying. 

So «hip ! at the summons, old Satan came Hying; 

But when he appvoach'd where poor Francis lay moaning. 

And saw each bed-post \\ith its l)urden a-groaniiig, 

Astonish'd ! confounded! cry'd Satan, " liy (unl, 

I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load." 



EPIGRAM ON l<:LrHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF 
MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 

O THOii whom Poetry abhors, 
Whom Prose had turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou yon groan ? — proceed no further, 
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling inurther. 



EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD, 

NOT Ql'lTE SO WISE AS SOLOMON. 

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes. 
Who said that not the soul alone, 

But ])ody too, must rise : 
For had he said, "The soul alone 

From tleath I will deliver," 
Alas, alas ! O Cardoness, 

Then thou hadst slept for ever ! 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 



173 



EPITAPH ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes: 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took sucli a hleth'rin' bitch 

Into thy ilark dominion ! 



EPITAPH ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hie Jacet ivee Johnny. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know 
That death has murder'il Johnnie ! 

An' here his body hes fu' low 

For saul he ne'er had ony. 



EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Here souter Hood in Deatli does sleep; 

To Hell, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll baud it weel thegitlier. 



EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

Know thou, O stra..ger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name, 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



EPITAPH FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

The Poor man weejis — here Gavin sleeps, 
VVhom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
May I be sav'd or danm'dl 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 



Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre h(;t for rule, 

Owie blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 



Is there a Bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 



174 



EPITAPH ON A V/AG. 



Is there a man whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor Inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 



And softer Jlanie, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 
And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's ilights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly holo, 

In U>w pursuit; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-cotttroi 

Is wisdom's root. 



EPITAPH ON MY FATHER. 

O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pridej 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; 

" P'or ev'n his failintrs lean'd to virtue's side." 



EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, 



INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. 



Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; 

What was his religion? 

Wha e'er desires to ken. 

To some other warl' 

Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane ! 



Strong ale was ablution, — 
Small beer persecution, 
A dram was memento mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul. 
And port was celestial glory. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN BUSHBY, 

VVRITEK, IN DUMFRIES. 

Here lies John Bushby, honest man! 
Cheat him. Devil, if you can. 



EPITAPH ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 



Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye; 
For had ye staid whole weeks avva. 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 



Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ve pass 
To school in bands thegither, 

O tread ye lightly on his grass, 
Perhaps he was your father. 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 



»75 



EPITAPH ON A PERSON NICKNAMED "THE MARQUIS," 

WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM. 

Hkre lies a mock Mnrquis whose titles were shamm'd, 
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd. 

EPITAPH ON WALTER R [RIDDEL]. 

Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the worms ev'n damn'd him 

When laid in his grave. 
"In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starv'd reptile cries; 
" An' his heart is rank poison," 

Another replies. 

ON HIMSELF. 
Here comes Burns 

On Rosinante ; 
She's d poor, 

But he's d canty ! 

GRACE I5EF0RE MEAT. 

O I.ORI), when hunger jiinches sore. 

Do thou stand us in need, < 

And send us from thy bounteous store, 
A tup or wether head ! Amen. 

ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE'S BRAINS. 

Lord, to account who dares thee call, 

Or e'er dispute thy ]ileasure? 
Else why within so thick a wall 

Enclose so poor a treasure ? 

IMPROMPTU 

ON AN INNKEEPER NAMED BACON WHO INTRUDED HIMSELF INTO ALL COMPANIB*- 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer. 
And plenty of bacon each day in the year; 
We've all things that's nice, and mostly in season. 
But why always Bacon — come, give me a reason? 

ADDRESSED TO A LADY 

WHOM THE AUTHOR FEARED HE HAD OFFENDED. 



RuSTiCiT\''s ungainly form 
May cloud the highest mind; 

But when the heart is nobly warm, 
The good excuse will find. 



Pro]iriety's cold cautious rules 
Warm fervour may o'erlook; 

But spare ]>oor sensibility 
The ungentle, harsh rebuke. 



176 



ON MR. M'MURDO. 



EPIGRAM. 

When , deceased, to the devil went down, 

'Twas nothing uoukl serve liiin l)iit Satan's own crown; 
"Thy fool's head,'' quuth Salaii, "that crown shall wear never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever." 

LliNES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER. 



My blessing on ye, honest wife, 

I ne'er was here before : 
Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and 
knife — 

Heart could not wish for more. 



TO 



Heaven keep you clear of sturt and 
strife. 

Till far ayont four sore, 
And by the Lord o' death and life, 

I'll ne'er gae by your door ! 



YoiTK billet, sir, I grant receipt; 

Wi' you I'll canter ony gate, 

Though 'twere a trip to yon blue vvarl', 
Whare birkies march on buining marl: 
Then, sir, God willing, I'll attend ye, 
And to his goodness I commend ye. 

R. Burns. 



ON MR. M'MURDO. 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day. 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; 
No wrinkle furrow'd by the hand of care, 
Nor even sorrow add one silver hair ! 
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain, 
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain. 



TO A LADY 

WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING SERMON. 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 

Nor idle texts pursue : 
'Twos giiil/y sinners that he meant — 

Not angfls such as you ! 

IMPROMPTU. 

How daur ye ca' me howlet-faced, 

Ye ugly, glowering spectre ? 
My face was but the keekin' glass, 

An' there ye saw your picture. 



TO A rAINTER. 



177 



TO MR. MACKENZIE, SURGEON, MAUCHLINE. 



Kkid.w (Irsl 's the day apjiDiiited 
By the Rij^lit WDishipful anointed, 

To hold our j^rand procession; 
To get a Iliad o' Jolinie's morals, 
And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels 

1' the way of our profession. 

The Master and the Brotherhood 
, WoulJ a' be glad to see you; 



For me I would be niair than ])roud 
To share the mercies \vi' you. 
It Death, then, wi' skaith, then. 
Some moital heart is hechtin', 
Inform him, and storm him, 

That .Saturday you'll fetcht him. 



Ri)m;KT BuKNs. 



Mossgiel, An. M. 5790. 



TO A PAINTER. 



De.\r , I'll gie ye some advice 

You'll tak it 110 uncivil : 
You shouldi;a paint at anfjels mair, 

But try and paint the devil. 



To paint an angel's kittle wark, 
Wi' auld Nick there's less danger-, 

You'll easy draw a vveel-kent face, 
But no sae weel a stranger. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A TUMBLER. 



Yoii'rf. welcome, Willie Stewart; 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart; 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in 
May, 

That's half sae welcome's thou art. 

("onie, bumjiers high, express your joy. 
The bowl we maun renew it; 



Th 



le tappit-hen, gae bring her ben. 
To welcome \Villie Stewart. 



May foes be Strang, and friends be 
slack, 

Ilk action may he rue it; 
May woman on him turn her back. 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart ! 



ON MR. W. CRUIKSHANK 

OF THE HIGH SCHOOI., EDlNnUKCH. 

Honest Will to heaven is gane, 
And mony shall lament him; 

His faults they a' in Latin lav, 
In English nanc e'er kent them. 



SONGS. 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune — "Miss Forbes' s Farewell to Baitjf, or Ettrick Banks." 



TwAS even — the dewy fields were 
green, 

On every Ijlade the pearls hang; 
The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the Mavis sang. 

All nature listening seem'd the while : 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her hair like nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whisper'd passing by. 

Behold the lass o' 13allochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
And sweet is night in Autumn mild, 

When roving thro' the garden gay, 
Or wandering in a lonely wild : 



Rut Woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all hercharnis shedoesct)inpiIe; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Thenjiridemight climb theslipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine. 

With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



SONG OF DEATH. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

JCENE. — W field of battle. Time of the day — Evening. The wounded and dying of the 
victorious army are supposed to Join in the song. 

Farf.WEI.L, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, 

Now gay with the broad setting sun ! 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, friglitcn the coward and slave ! 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant! but know. 

No terrors hast thou for the brave ! 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 



179 



Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck i)f a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our King and our Country to save — 
While victory shines on life s last el)hing sands, 

O! vvlio would not (He \\'itli the brave ! 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE O. 



When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-lime is near, my jo; 
And owsen fiae the furrow'd field 

Return sac dowf and wearie (); 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew arc hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on tiie lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee. 
My ain kind dearie O. 



Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 
Anil I were ne'er sae wearie O, 

I'd meet thcc on the lea-rig. 
My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun. 

To rouse the mountain deer, my joj 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo; 
Gie me tlie hour o' gloamin gray, 

It niaks my heart sae cheery O 
To meet tiiee on the lea- rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

Thkre's auld Rob Morns that wons in yon glen. 
He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang tiie new hay; 
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea. 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird. 
And my ('addle has nought Ijut a cot-house and yard; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist. 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 

had she lint been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hop'd siie wad sinil'd upon me; 
O how past descriving had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can exjiress! 



i8o 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



NAEBODY. 

I HAE a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' naebody; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 

I hae a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to naebody; 

I hae nothnig to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord, 

I'll be slave to naebody; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll l)e sad for naebody; 

If naebody care for me, 
I'll care for naebody. 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME 
WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a borne wee thir.g, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer. 

And neist my heart I'll wear her. 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack, we share o't. 
The warstle and the care o't; 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 

DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

On blythe yule niglu \\ hen we were fou, 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



Maggie coost her head fu high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand aiieigh; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd i)aiih out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' low pin o'er a linn; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted lo\e is sair to bide. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew well. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
P\)r relief a sigh she brings; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Maggie's was a ]iiteous case. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan couldna be her death. 
Swelling pily sinoor'd his wrath; 
Now they're cruuse and cantie haith ! 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

O POORTITH. 

Tune — " I had a horse " 

O I'OOKTITH cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive"^ 
An' 'Iwerena for my Jeanje. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend un Fortune's shining? 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME. OH! 



This vvarld's wenlth when I think on, 
It's pride, anil a' the lave o't; 

Fie, tie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
O why, &c. 

Her een sae bonie lilue betray 
How she repays my passion; 

But prudence is her o'erword aye. 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
O why, >S;c. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him? 
O v\'ha can prudence think upon. 

And sae in love as 1 am? 
O why, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He woos his simple dearie; 
The silly bogles, wealth and state. 
Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining? 
Or why sre sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune's shining? 

GALLA WA'rp:R. 

braw lads on Yarrow 



There's braw 
braes, 
That wander 
heather ; 

But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws 
Can match the lads o' Galla Water 



thro' the' blooming 



But there is ane, a secret ana, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And I'll lie his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonie lad o' Galla Water. 



Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 

We'll tent our flocks by (}alla Water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth. 
That ccjft contentment, peace or pleas- 
ure; 
The bands and ijliss o' mutual love, 

that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 

LORD GREGORY. 

C) MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, 
And loud the tempest's roar; 

A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tovv'r. 
Lord Cregoiy, ojie thy door. 

An exile, frae her fnther's ha', 

And a' fur lo\ing thee; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it niayna be. 

LordGregorv, mind'stthounot the grove, 

By bonie Irwine side. 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love, 

1 lang, laiig had denied? 

How aften didst thou ]iledge and vow, 
Thou wad for aye lie mine I 

And my fond heart, itsel sae true. 
It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from aljove. 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love. 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! 



WITH ALTERATIONS. 



Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, 

O, open the door to me, Oh ! 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me. Oh ! 



t82 yESS/E. 

Caiild is the Ijlast upon my pale cheek, 
But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart. 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 
And time is setting with me, Oh ! 

False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by kis side. 

Never to rise again. Oh ! 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

Air — " O, bonie Lass, ivill yon lie in a Barrack.^' 

O KEN ye \\hat Meg o' the Mill has gotten. 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller. 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddyj 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady; 
The Laiid was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 
And wae on the hne that is tix'd on a maileni 
A tocher's nae word in a true lever's parle. 
But, gie me my love, and a lig for the warl ! 

jp:ssie. 

Tune — ^^ Bonie Dundee." 

TRiJE-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

And fail- are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river. 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair: 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover. 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 



LOGAN BRAES. 



183 



O, fresli is ihe rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger! 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. 

WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 

Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame; 
Come to my Ijosom, my ain only dearie. 

Tell me thou hring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting. 

Fears for my Willie hnmght tears in my ee; 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 

The simmer to nature, my Willie to me ! 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers; 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 

Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 

LOGAN BRAES. 

Tune — " Logan Water." 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 



O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Li!ce Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
W'hile my dear lad maun face his faes. 
Far, far frae me and I^ogan Braes. 

Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bovvers, 
The bees hum round the breathing 

flowers ; 
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And evening's tears are tears of joy: 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 
While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 



Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye mak monie a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
])Ut soon may peace bring happy days, 
And Willie hame to Logan Braes ! 



PIIILUS THE FAIR. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 

Tune — " Ronie Jean." 
There was .1 lass, and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen, 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was lionie Jean. 

And ay she wrontjlit her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sang sae merrily : 

The blythest liird upon the liush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad. 
The flower and pride of a' the glen; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was 
stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark. 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; 

Yet wistna what her ail might be. 
Or what wad make her weel again. 

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And <lidna joy Ijlink in her ee. 

As Ri)bie tauld a tale o' love, 
Ae e'enin on the lily lea? 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whispcr'd thus his tale o' love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; 

O canst thou think to fancy me? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me? 



At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee; 

But stray amang the heather-bells. 
Anil tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent. 

And love was ay between them twa. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune — " Robin Adair." 
While larks with little wing 

Kann'd the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Fortli I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad did I share; 
While yon wild flowers among. 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day. 
Rosebuds bent the (lewy spray; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may Fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 

BY ALLAN STREAM. 

Tune— "^tf«K Water." 
By Allan stream 1 chanc'd to rove. 

While Phcebussank beyond Benleddi; 
The winds were whi.spering thro' the 
grove. 
The yellow corn was waving r'feady : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures 
monic; 
And av the wildwood echoes rang — 
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 



WITTSTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 



185 



O, happy be the woodbine l)ower, 

Nile nightly bogle mak it eerie; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throl)i)ing breast, 

She, sinking, said" I'm thineforever !" 
While monie a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 



The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer jo)S the llocks to follow; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! 
Ijut can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chainthesoulinspeechless pleasure, 
Or, thro' each nerve the rai)tvire dart, 

Likemeetingher, our bosom's treasure? 



HAD I A CAVE. 

Tune — " Rabin Adair." 
Had T a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; 
There would 1 weep my woes, 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air? 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try, 
What peace is there ! 

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 

Tune — "My 7", J^net.'" 
O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad; 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me. 
And come na unless the black-yett be a-jee; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me. 
And come, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee. 
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, tho' jokin ye be. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 



i86 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 



HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE 
YOUR STRIFE. 

Tune — " My Jo, Janet." 
Husband, Imsbantl, cease your sti-ife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir; 
Tho' 1 am your uediled wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 

"One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man or woman, say. 

My spouse, Nancy?" 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord. 

And so good-bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ! 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it: 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead 

Still I'll try to daunt you; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancv, Nancv; 
Then all hell will fiy for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

DELUDED SWAIN. 

Tune — " The Colliers Dochter." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee. 

Is but a fairy treasure, 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 



The billows on the ocean 

The breezes idly roaming. 
The clouds' uncertain motion. 

They are but types of woman. 

! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature? 

If man thou wouldst be named. 
Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 

SONG. 

Tune — " The Quaker's Wife." 
Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy; 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb anil languish : 

Tho' despair had wrung its core 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away those rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure ! 

Turn away thine eyes of love. 
Lest I die with pleasure ! 

What is life when wanting love? 

Night without a morning ! 
Love's the cloudless summer sun. 

Nature gay adorning. 

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE ? 

A NEW SCOTS SONG. 

Tune — " The Suior's Dochter" 

Wll.T thou be my dearie? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee? ^ 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee ! ■ 

1 swear and vow that only thou 
Shalt ever be my dearie — 
Only thou, I swear and vow, 
Shall ever be my dearie. 



HARK! rilE MAVIS. 



187 



Lassie, say thou lo'es nie; 
Or if tiuju wilt \v\ lie my ain, 
Say iKi tiKui'lt refuse ine : 
If it winua, caiina be, 
Thou for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, tjuickly (he, 
Trustiujj; tiiat tliou lo'es me — 
Lassie, let me (|uiokly die. 
Trusting tli.U thou lo'es me. 

BANKS OF CRI<:E. 

Tune — " The Flowers of Edinburgh." 

HiCRK is the gieu, and here the bower. 
All underneath the hirehen shade; 

The vilhigc-bell has toU'd the hum, 
O what can stay my lovely maid? 

'Tis not Maria's wliispering call; 

'Tis but the balmy breaihing j'ale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove 
His little faithful mate to cheer. 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come? and art thou true? 

O welcome, dear, to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew. 

Along the llow'ry banks of C'ree. 

ON THE SF':AS and FAR 
AWAY. 

TuNRj— " O'er the Hilh ami far atvny." 

IldW can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my Sailor lad? 
How can I the thought forego. 
He's on the seas to meet the foe? 
Let me wander, let me rove. 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 
On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and f.u- away; 
Nightly ilreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye witli him that's far away. 



When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary (locks around me pant, 
Haply in this sci)rching sun 
My Sailor's tluiiurring at his gun: 
Bullets, spare my only joy! 
HuUels, spare my darling boy! 
Fate, ilo with me what you may, 
Sparc luit him that's far away ! 
( >n the seas, ilvc. 

At the starless midnight hour. 

When winter rules with boundless 

power; 
.'\s the storms tho forest tear, 
;\nd thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar. 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep ami i)ray. 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, t\:c. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend. 
And bid wild War his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet. 
And as a brother kindly greet: 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales 
Fill my Sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey. 
My dear lad that's far away. 
.. On the seas, &c. 

HARK! TIIF MAVIS. 

TiiNK — " Ca' the Yowes to the Kiiowes." 
rilOlUJS. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
C'a' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
My bonie dearie. 

Hark ! the mavis' evening sang 
Soui\ding t'louden's woods amang, 
'I'lien a faulding let us gang. 
My bdiiie dearie. 
Ca' the, vS:c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side. 
Thro' the hazels spreading wicie, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
lo the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the, (Sic. 



HO W LANG AND DREAR Y. 



Yonder Cloudeii's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine niiilnight hours, 
O'er the dewy-bending tlowers, 
Faiiies dance sae cheery. 
Ca' the, ^;c. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; 
Thou'rt to love and Heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near. 
My bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart; 
I can die — but canna part, 
jNIy bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

While waters wimple to the sea; 
While day blinks in the lift sae hie; 
Till clay-cauld death shall bliu' my ee. 
Ye shall be my dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

SHE S.\YS SHE LO'ES ME 
BESr OF .\'. 

Tune — " Onagh's Water-fall." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewi tellingly o'erarching 

Twa laughing een o' bonie blue. 
Her smiling, sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe; 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Ihito these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chh)ris' bonie face. 

When first her bonie face I saw, 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky; 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu' air; 
Ilk feature — auld Nature 

Declar'd thut she could do nae mair : 
Hers are tlie willing chains o' love. 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 



Let others love the city, 

.\n(.l gaudy show at sunny noon; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming 

Her silver light the l)oughs amang; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his 
sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
And hear my vows o' truth and love. 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'? 

HOW LANG AND DREARY. 

Tune — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 
How lang anil dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 

CHORUS. 

For oh, her lanely nights are lang; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie; 
And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 

I sjient wi' thee, my dearie, 
Ami now that seas lietwten us roar, 

How can I be but eerie ! 
For oh, &c. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; 

The joyless day how drearic ! 
It wasna sae ye glinted by. 

When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh, &c. 

THE LOVER'S MORNING 
SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. 

TuNi£ — " Deil tak the Wars." 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest 
creature: 

Rosv morn now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka l)Uil which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 



Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly 
stray : 
The liiituliito in liis bower 
t'liants o'er the lirenthing flower; 
The liiv'rock to the sUy 
Ascends vvi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless 
the day. 

Phrebus, gliding the brow o' morning, 
Banishes ilk tlarksonie shade. 

Nature gkidtlening and adorning; 
Such to nie niv lovely maid. 
When absent frae my fair, 
'J'he murky shades o' care 

With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen 
sky : 
Piut when, in beauty's light, 
Siie meets my ravish'd sight, 
When thro' my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart — 

'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 

LASSIE Wr THE LINT- 
WHITE LOCKS. 

Tune — " Roihieiniirchiis's Rant." 

ciiorais. 
Lassie wi' the lint-\\hite locks, 

Bonie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wi' me tent tiie flocks? 

Wilt thou be my dearie O? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And 3-1 is young and sweet like thee; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me. 
And say thou'll be my dearie O? 
Lassie wi', iS:c. 

And when the welcome simmer-shower 
lias cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
'I'hr-i' vellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 



And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll coDifort thee, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? 
Wilt thou be my dearie O? 

THE AULD MAN. 

Ti'NE — " The Death of the Linnet." 

Bi T lately seen in gladsimie green 

The woods rejoic'd the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing 
flowers 

In double pride were gay: 
But now our joys are lied. 

On \\ inter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

.Shall melt the snaws of age; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again? 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 

Tune — " N^ancy's to the Crecniuood gane." 

Fakewici.1,, thou stream that winding 
n.)ws 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
O Mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

Anfl yet in secret languish, 
To feel a (ire in ev'ry vein. 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 
I fain my griefs would cover : 

The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan. 
Betray the hapless lover. 



I know thou doom'st me to despair, 
Nor wilt nor cau^i. relieve me; 

But oil, Kli/a, heiir i)ne prayer, 
l'"or pity's saUe forgive nie ! 

The music of thy voice I heard, 
Nor wist while it enslav'd me; 



I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fcar'd, 
'Pill fears no more hail sav'd luc: 

Tir unwary sailor thus aghast, 
The wiu'cling torrent viewing, 

'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 
in overwhelming ruin. 



CONTENTI'-n Wr LITTLE. 

Tunis — " Lum(>s o' pudding." 
CONTENTKD wi' little, and canlie wi' mair. 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie Ihem a skclp as they're crecpin' alang, 
wr a cog o' gudc swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw- the ellxnv o' troublesome thought; 

lUit man is a soger, and life is a fauglit : 

My mirth and giide humour are coin in my pouch. 

And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarcli dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that he my fa', 
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a'; 
When at the blythc end of our journey at last, 
Wha the dcil ever thinks o' the road he has past? 

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae : 
Come ease, or come travail; come jileasure or pain. 
My wars! wnird is — " Welcome, and welcome again !" 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tune — " Tlifn-'ll ueTt'r he pcacr till Jixmie comes hame." 
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drop and primrose our woodlands adorn. 
Anil violets bathe in the weet o' the morn : 
They jiain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie — my Nannie's awa. 

Thou laverock that sjirings frae the dews <>' (he lawn. 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou, yellow m.avis, that hails the niglit-fa', 
Gie over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come autmnn sac pensive, in yellow and gray, 
And soolhc mc w i' tidings o' nature's decay; 
The dark, drearv winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? 



191 



SWEET FA'S THE EVE. 

'I'uNi'. — " Cm igii'6 14 r n-tvood ." 
Swi.Ki' fa's tlic eve on (,'r;u^;ic-l)urn, 

Ami l)lylhc awakes tlic muiTDW, 
Hut a' llic pride o' s[)rinj;'s return 

Can yielil me noclu bul sorrow. 

I sec the (lowers ami s]trea(lin^ trees, 
1 iiear tlie wild birds siii^iii}i;; 

lUit wliat a weary wij^lit can please, 
And care his bosom wrinj^in^;? 

I'ain, fain would I my griifs imparl, 
Yet dare na for your antjer; 

Hut secret love will break my heart, 
If 1 conceal it lunger. 

If thou refuse to ]iity nie. 

If thou sliall love anither. 
When yon ^^reen leaves fa' frae the tret 

Arounil my grave they'll wither. 



O L.ASSIE, ART TMOU 

SLi:i:i'iN(; yef? 



TlFNK — " I.fi nil- in this • 



night.' 



() I.ASSIK., art thou sleeping yet? 
Or art thou wnkm, I w<!uld wil ? 
l""or love has boimd me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CIIOKIIS. 

O let mc in this ae night. 

This ac, ae, ae night ; 
J'"or pity's sake this ae night, 

O viae and let me in, jo. 



Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet; 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
( ) let me in, &c. 

I'he bitter blasi that round me blaws, 
Unheeded howls, unheeded la's; 
The eauldness o' thy heart's the caiLse 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
( ) k't me in, iVc. 

III.K ANSVVI'-.K. 

ri'.i.i, na me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain! 
(iae back the gait ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

I tell you now this ae night, 

This ;ie, ae, .ae niglit; 
And ance f<ir a' this ae night, 

I winna let you in, \o. 

The snellcst blast, at mirkcst hours, 
That round the jiathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, iVc. 

The sweetest nowcrlliat dcc.k'd ihemcad, 

Now trodden like the vilest weed; 

Let sim]ile maid the lesson read. 

The weird may be her ain, jo. 

I tell you now, iS:c. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-dayy 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey; 
I,et witless, trusting woman say 
I low aft her fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 



soNc;. 

TlJNK — " Humours 0/ Clcn." 

Tm.lK groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon, 
Where bright-beaming sunnners exalt the |)erfume; 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly vmsecn : 

i'"or then', lightly lri|ipiMg ainang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 



192 



ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 



Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace. 

What are they? The haunt uf the tyrant and slave! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-l)ubbling fountains. 

The brave Caledonian vieus \\i' disdain; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 

Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 

'TWAS NA HER BON IE BLUE EE. 

Tune — " Laddie, lie near me." 
'TWAS na her bonie blue ee was my ruin; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing; 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. 

Sail- do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do 1 fear that ciespair maun abide me; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Chloris, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
And Ihou hast plighted me love o' the dearest! 
And ihou'rt tiie angel that never can alter. 
Sooner the sun in his motion would (alter. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD- 
LARK. 

Tune — " WhereUl bonie Ann He." 

O STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, 
Nur quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay. 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part. 
That I may catch thy melting art; 
P'or surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Sav, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd 
Sic notes o' wae could wauken. 

Thou felh o' never-ending care; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair; 
l*\ir pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE 
PARENTS. 

Tune — " yo/en Anderson my Jo.'* 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only |)rize, 
And to the wealthy l)ooby 

Poor woman sacrilice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a Choice of*trife; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate. 

Become a wretched wile. 



The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thns flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries; 
Till of escape desjjairing. 

No shelter or retreat. 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



FORLORN, MY LOVE. 



193 



MARK YONDER POMP. 

TiiNE — " Deil tak the Wars." 
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the weaUhy, titled bride : 
But wiien compur'd with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are their showy treasures? 
What are their noisy pleasures? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 
The polish'd jewel's blaze 
May draw the wond'ring gaze, 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the 
heart. 
But tlid you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower 
is. 
Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
O then, the heart alarming. 
And all resistless charming. 
In love's delightful fetters she chains 
the willing soul ! 
Ambition would disown 
The world's imperial crown; 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity. 
And feel thro' every vein Love's rap- 
turous roll. 

I SEE A FORM, I SEE A FACE. 

Tune — " This is no my ain house." 
O THIS is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho' the lassie be; 
O weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her ee. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ve weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 

She's bonie, blooming, straight, and tall. 
And lang lias had my heart in thrall; 
And aye it charms my very saul. 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 



A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a blink, by a' unseen; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een. 
When kind love is in the ee. 
O this is no, iS;c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 



BONIE WAS YON ROSY 

BRIER. 

Tune — " I wish my love was in a mire." 

O BONIE was yon rosy brier. 

That bloomssaefair frae haunt o' man; 
And bonie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

1 low pure aniang the leaves sae green ; 
But purer was tho lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 

FORLORN, MY LOVE. 

Tune — " Let me in this ae tiight.'" 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 



O wert thou, love, but near me. 
But near, near, near me; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 



194 



LAST MAY A BJ^AIV WOOER. 



Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each Inul of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, sliadc, nor home have 1, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
O wert, &c. 



Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 



Let me not break thy faithful heart. 
And say that fate is mine, love. 
O wert, &c. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, &c. 



L.'\ST MAY A BRAVV WOOER. 

TvNE — " Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 
And sair wi' his love he tlid deave me : 

I said there was naething I hated like men. 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me. 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 



He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een, 

And vow'd for my love he was dying; 
I said he might die when he liked for Jean : 

The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying. 

The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked niailen, hinisel for the laird. 

And marriage aft'-hand, were his proffers: 
I never loot on that I kend it, or car'd; 

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers. 

But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less. 

The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad ! 1 could bear her, could bear her. 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 



But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine (ickle lover was there. 
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glo\\r'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink. 
Anil vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 



ALT HO THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 195 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 

Gill she had recovei'd her hearin, 
And how her new shoon (it her auld shachl't feet — 

But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, 

But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 

Or else I watl Uill him wi' sorrow: 
bo e'en to preserve the poiu' body in life, 

I think 1 maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 

I think I maun wetl him to-morrow. 



HEY FOR A LASS WF A TOCHER. 

Tune — " lialinamona ora." 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit lieauty you grasp in y(nir arms: 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the vveel-stockit farms. 



Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a lass 

wi' a tocher. 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow 

guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows, 
And witliers the faster, ihe faster it grows; 
But the rajiturous charm o' the bonie green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes. 
Then hey, &c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, 
The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. 
Then hey, &c. 



ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 

Tune — " Here's a health to them that's awa, Hiney." 



Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; 

Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 



196 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 



Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

AUho' even hope is denied; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than auglit in the w orld beside — Jessy I 
Here's a health, &C. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 
As, hopeless, 1 muse on thy charms : 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's cruel decree — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 



Bonie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, 

will ye go, 
Bonie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of 

Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Hirks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, iS;c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 

The little birdies l)lythely sing, 

Or lightly flit on wanton wing 

In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonie lassie, iSic. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
Tlie foaming stream deep roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 



Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me. 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND 
ROVER. 

Tune — " Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning, ~ 
Shall a' be blythely singing, 
And every flower be sjiringing, 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day. 
When by his mighty w artlen 

My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 
And bonie Castle-Gordon. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 



ly? 



STAY, MY CHARMER. 

Tune — " An gille dubh ciar dhubh." 
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 
Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 
Well you know how much you grieve 
me; 
Cruel charmer, can you go? 
Cruel charmer, can you go? 

By my love so ill requited; 

By the faith you fondly plighted; 

I]y the pangs of lovers slighted; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



FULL WELLTHOU KNOW'ST. 

Tune — " Jiothii'inurchiis's rant." 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside. 

And smile as thou wert wont to do? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear? 
O, did not love cx'daini, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithfid lover so?" 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall 
kn-ow. 

Fairest maid, &c. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing. 
Busy haunts of base mankind. 

Western breezes softly blowing. 
Suit not my distracted mind. ■ 



In the cause of right engag'd, 
Wrongs injurious to redress. 

Honour's war we strongly wag'cJ, 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 
Not a hope tliat dare attend; 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend! 

R.AVING WINDS AROUND 
HER BLOW EN G. 

Tune — " M'Grcgor of Ruara's latnent." 

Raving winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing. 
By a liver hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'tl deploring: 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of soriow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morri)W ! 
" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-l:)loo(l freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of everv blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O, how gladly Fd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! " 

MUSING ON THE ROARING 
OCEAN. 

Tune — " Drnimion dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean 

Which divides my love and me; 
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 

For his weal where'er he be. 
Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law; 
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa. 
Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear. 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded. 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw; 
Spirits kind, again attend me. 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 



igS 



THE LAZY MIST. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

Tune — " A ndro and his cuttie gun. 



Elythe, blythe and merry was she, 
Blytjie was she but and ben : 

Blylhe by the banks of Ern, 
And blythe in Glentur'c glen. 

By Ochtertyre grows the aik, 

Ou \'airovv banks, the birken shaw; 

But Pheniie was a bonier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blythe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Ern 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blythe, ike. 

Her bonie face it was as meek 
I As onie lamb's upon a lee; 
I The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 
Blythe, &c. 



The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er tiie Lowlands 1 hae been; 

But I'hemie was the blytliest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blythe, &c. 

PKGGY'S CHARMS. 

Tune — " Neil Goiv's lameniaiioii for 
Abercairny." 

Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
.Astonish'd doubly, marks it beam 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms 1 lirst survey'd, 

When lirst I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with giim control 

May seize my fleeting breath; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



THE LAZY MIST, 



Ikish Air- 



Coolitn." 



The lazv mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 

Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill; 

Flow languitl the scenes, late so sprightly, appear. 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues; 

How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain 

How little of life's scanty span may remain: 

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

Flow foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 

And downward, \\ow weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd ! 

This life's not worth having with all it can give, 

For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 



TW 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY 
WALK. 

Tune — " The Shepherd's Wife" 
A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adowa a corn-enclosed bawlc, 
Sae gently bent its ihoiny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd. 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. 
On trembling string or vocal air. 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt l)eauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd thy early morning. 

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE 
DAY. 

Tune — " luvercauld's reel." 
CHORUS. 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day. 
Ye would na been sae shy; 
For laik o' gear ye lightly me. 
But, trowth, 1 care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure : 
Ye geek at me because I'ui poor, 
But fient a hair care 1. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 

Because ye hae the name o' clink. 

That ye can please me at a wink. 

Whene'er ye like to try. 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tibbie, 1 hae, &c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head anithcr airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if ye hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'U fasten to him like a brier, 
Thu' hardly he, for sense or leaf, 
Be better than the kye. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddy's gear maks you sae nice; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

There lives a lass in yt)nder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark. 
For thee vvi' a' thy thousand mark; 
Ye need na look sae high. 
O Tiljbie, 1 hae, &c. 

I LOVE MY JEAN. 

TuNi£ — " Miss Adtniral Gordon's 
Strathspey.^' 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bonie lassie lives. 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And monie a hill between; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' Ijirds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green; 
There's not a bonie bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE HAPPY TRIO. 



O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' 
HILL! 

Tune — " My Love is lost to tne." 

O, ^YERE I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my lill; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing liow dear I love thee. 
But iSiiii maiui be my Muse's well, 
My Muse maun be thy bonie sel; 
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I could na sing, 1 could na say. 

How much, how dear, 1 love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting looks, thy roguish een — 

iiy Heaven and earth I love thee! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame; 
And aye 1 muse antl sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on. 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run; 

Till then — and then I'd love thee. 

THE BLISSFUL DAY. 

Tune — " Seventh of November '' 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet; 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide. 

And crosses o'er the sultry line; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and 
globes. 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee 
mine. 

While day and night can liring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give; 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part; 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCH- 
MYLE. 

Tune — " Miss Forbes' s fare'tvell to Batiff." 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' failed groves Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's liloom the whyle, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintr) beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair; 
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers. 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; 
Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Balloch- 
myle. 

THE HAPPY TRIO. 

Tune — " Willie brenv'd a peck o' tnaut." 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut. 
And Rob and Allan cam to see; 

Three lilyther hearts, that lee-lang night. 
Ye wad na tind in Christendie. 

CHORUS. 

We are na fou, we're no that fou. 

But just a drappie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And ay we'll taste the barley bree. 
Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we; 
And monie a night we've merry been, 
And monie mae we hope to be ! 
We are na fou, (S:c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; 

She siiines sae bright to wyle us hame. 
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! 
We are na fou, <S;c. 

Wha first shall rise to gang.avva, 
A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 

Wha first beside his chair shall fa', 
He is the King among us three ! 
We are na fou, lic. 



TAM GLEN. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

'Tune — " The blathrie o'i." 

I GAEO a waefu' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely eei> o' bonie blue. 
'Twas not her g<jlden ringlets bright, 

Ilcr lip-; like roses wat \vi' dew, 
Hec hea\ing bosom lily-white; — 

It was her een sae bonie blue. 

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she 
wyl'd. 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how; 
And ay the stound, the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed; 

She'll aibliiis li.^ten to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonie blue. 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your lucks were like the raven, 

Your bonie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
Anrimonie a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TAM GLEN. 

Tune — " The innckins o' Geordie's byre. 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len'. 

To anger them a' is a pity; 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? 



I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow. 
In poorliih I might mak a fen'; 

What care I in riches to wallow. 
If I niaunna marry Tam Glen? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 
" Guid-day to you, biute ! " he comes 
ben : 
He brags and he blaws o' his siller. 
But when will he dance like Tam 
Glen? ^ 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me; 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gie me guid huiider marks ten: 

But, if it's ordai-.i'd I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen? 

Yestreen at the Valentines' dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten : 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was wiitten, Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin — 
And the very gray breeks o' Tam 
Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry; 

I'll gie you my bonie lilack hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 

GANE IS THE D.\Y. 

Tune — " Giiidivife count the laiviu." 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for fautc o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 
And bluid-red wine's the risin' sun. 

CHORUS. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the 

lawin, the lawin, 
Then guidwife count the lawin, and 

bring a coggie mair. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO? 



There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen', 
But here we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 



My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool; 
And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink it a' ye'll find him out. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller. 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airle-penny, 

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood; 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree; 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread. 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' AN OLD MAN? 

Tune — " IVhai can a Lassie do." 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian! 
Bad luck on the penny, &c. 

He's always compleenni frae mo»«iin to e'enin, 

He hosts and he hir]iles the weary day lang: 
He's doylt and he's dozin, his liluid it is frozen, 

O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 

I never can please him do a' that I can; 
He's peevisli, and jealous of a' the young fellows: 
O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 

I'll do my endeavor to follow her ])Ian; 
I'll cross him, and rack him, until I heart-break him. 

And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 



BESSY AND HER SPINNIN WHEEL. 



203 



O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, 
TAM ! 

Tune — " The Moudieivort." 



An O for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattliii sang, 

An I saw ane and twenty. Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and baud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie. Tarn ! 
But three short years will soon wheel 
roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. 
An O for ane, &c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut c' gear, 
Was left me by ray auntie, Tam; 

At kith or kin I need na spier. 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An O for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' 1 mysel' hae plenty, Tam; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An O for ane, &c. 



THE BONIE WEE THING. 

Tune — " The Lads of Saltcoats." 

BoNlfi wee thing, cannie wee thing. 
Lovely wee thing, was thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom. 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish 
In that bonie face o' thine; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonie wee, &c. 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune — " Robze Donna Corach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me. 

Where Cummins ance had high com- 
mand : 
When shall I see that honour'd land. 

That winding stream I love so dear! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, e\ei- keep me here? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily 
bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where laml^kins wanton thro' the 
broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



BESSY AND HER SPINNIN 
WHEEL. 

Tune — " Bottom of the Punch Bowl." 

O LEEZE me on my spinnin wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel : 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me hel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinnin wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot. 

And meet below my theekit cot; 

The scented birk and hawthorn white. 

Across the pool their arms unite. 

Alike to screen the birdie's nest. 

And little lishes' caller rest : 

The sun blinks kindly in the biel', 

\N'here Ijlythe I turn my spinnin wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail. 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays: 



204 



FAIR ELIZA. 



The craik amaiij;; the claver hay, 
The paitrick wliirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkiii rouiul my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinnin wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 

Aboon distress, below envy, 

O wha wad leave this humble state, 

For a' the pride of a' the great? 

Amid their flarin, idle tt)y.s. 

Amid their cunil)ruus, diiisome joys. 

Can they the |)eace and pleasure feel 

Of Bessy at her spinnin wheel? 

COUNTRY LASSIE. 

Tune — " John, come kiss me Jtow." 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field. 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield; 
Blythe Bessie in llie milking shiel, 

Says, " I'll be wed, come o't what 
will;" 
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

" It's ye hae wooers monie ane. 

And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre; 
Tak this frae me, my bonie hen, 

Its plenty beets tlae luver's fire." 

" For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen 

I dinna care a single the; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's ee. 

And weel I wat he loe's me dear: 
Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 

"O thoughtless lassie, life's a faugh t ! 

The canniest gate, the strife issair; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin best, 

A htmgry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will 
spare. 

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; 



Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 

Keep mind that ye maun drink tht 
yilk" 

" O, gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye; 
But the tender lieart o' leesome luve 

The gowd and siller canna louy : 
We may be poor — Roliie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve Iniiigs peace and joy. 

What mair hae queens upon a throne?" 

FAIR ELIZA. 

Tune — " The boiie brucket Lassie." 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind bhnk before we part, 
Rue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faiihfu' heart? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies. 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended? 

The offence is loving thee; 
Canst thou w reck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die? 
While the life beats in my bosom. 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom. 

In the pride o' sinny noon; 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon; 
Not the poet in the rtoment 

Fancy lightens in his ee, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture. 

That thy presence gies to me. 

SHE'S FAIR AND FAIJSE. 

She's fair and fause Jhat causes my 
smart, 
I lo'ed her meikle and Inng: 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my 
heart, 
And I may e'en gae hang. 



A coof cam in \vi' rowth o' gear, 

A'.id I hae tint my dearest dear, 

But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 
To this be never blind, 



Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't Ijy kind : 
O Woman lovely, Woman fair ! 
An Angel form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee 
mair, 

I mean an Angel mind. 



THE POSIE. 

O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, 
And a' to pu' a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year. 
And I will jiu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and l^looms without a peer: 
And a' to be a Posie to my aiu dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou; 
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue, 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll jilace the lily there; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air. 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey. 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away; 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near. 
And the diamond drops o' dew shall he her een sae clear; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the Posie round wi' the silken band o' luve. 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above. 
That to my latest draught o' hfe the band shall ne'er remuve, 
And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. 



206 



GLOO]\n DECEMBER. 



THE BANKS O' BOON. 

Tune — " The Caledonian Hunt's delight.''' 

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling 
i)ird. 

That wantons thro' the flowering 
thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys. 

Departed — never to return. 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird, 

That sings beside thy mate. 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 

And wist na o' my fate. 
Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 

W-' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Upon a morn in June; 
And sae I fiourish'd on the morn. 

And sae was pu'd on noon. 



VERSION PRINTED IN THEl 
MUSICAL MUSEUM. 

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, 
How can ye blume sae fair ! 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care. 

Thou'U break my heart, thou bonie 
bird. 

That sings upon the bough; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days, 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'U break my heart, thou bonie 
bird. 

That sings beside thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 
To see the wood-bine twine, 

And ilka bird sang o' its love, 
And sae did I o' mine. 

\Vi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Frae off its thorny tree ; 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember. 

Parting wi' Kancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' jinrling is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever. 

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 

^Vild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



AFTON WATER. 



207 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 

Tune — " Oran Gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ! 

Thou Roest, thou darling of my heart : 
Sever' J from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part ! 
I'll often greet this surging swell; 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here I took the last farewell; 

There latest mark'd her vaiiish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowls round me cry. 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
" Happy, thou Indian grove," I'll say, 

"Where now my Nancy's path maybe! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me?" 

WILLIE'S WIFE. 

Tune — " Tibbie Fo-wler in the Glen." 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 

Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie; 



He had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an ee, she has but ane. 
The cat has twa the very colour : 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
A clap]ier tongue wad deave a miller 

A whiskin beard about her mou. 

Her nose and chin theythreaten ither 
Sic a wife, &c. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; 

She's twisted right, she twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She has a hump upon her breast. 
The twin o' that upon her shouther; 
Sic a wife, &c. 

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits. 

An' wi' herloof her face a-washin; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; 

Her walie nieves like midden-creels. 

Her face wad fyle the Logan -water; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murnniring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon'thorny den. 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 



208 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 



Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
Ami winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 
How wanton Ihy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sueet tlovv'rets she stems thy clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afiun, ilisturb not her dream. 



LOUIS, WH.\T RECK I BY 
THEE? 

Tune — " iSIy Moi/i<-r's aye ^la^uring o'er 
me." 

Louis, what reck I by thee. 
Or (.jeordie on his ocean? 

Dyvour, l)eggar loons to me, 
1 reign in Jeanie's bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 
yVnd in her l)reast enthrone me: 

Kings and nations, swith awa ! 
Reif rantlies, 1 disow n ye ! 

BON IE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly Hies: 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And l)onie l)lue are the sunny skies; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth 
the morning. 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And 1 rejoice in my bonie Bell. 
The flowery spring leads sunny summer. 

And yellow autumn presses near. 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes 
tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonie Bell. 

FOR THE SAKE OF 
S()Nn^:i501)Y. 

Tune — " 'I'hc [Iigh!a>iil ]Vtitclt s farewell." 
Mv heart is sair, T dare na tell. 

My heart is sair for somebody; 
I could w'ake a winter night, 

For the sake o' somebody ! 



Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 

Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebotly ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad 1 not? 
For tile sake o' somebijdy ! 

O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o' December; 

?\,r sparkling was the rosy wine. 
And private was tlie chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name. 
But 1 will aye remember. 
And dear, ivc. 

And here's to them, thai, like oursel. 
Can push about the jorum, 

And here's to them tiiat wish us weel. 
May a' that's guid watch o'er them; 

And here's to them we dare na tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to, &c. 

THE LOVELY LASS OF 
LNVERNESS. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And .aye the saut tear blins her ee : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me; 
For there 1 lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 



A VISION. 



209 



Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by llieiu lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be; 
For monie a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee. 

A RED, RED ROSE. 

Tune — " Wishaw^s favourite'' 

O, MY luve's Hke a red, red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June: 

O, my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly played in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonie lass. 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve ihee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt \vi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And faie thee weel, my only luve. 
And fare thee weel awhile ! 

And I will come again, my luve, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON 
TOWN ? 

Tune — " The bonie Lass in yon tcwH." 

O, WAT ye wha's in yon town. 
Ye see the e'enin sun upon? 

The fairest dame's in yon town. 
That e'enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest, ye flow'rs that round her 
blaw. 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest, ye birds that round her sing. 
And welcome in the blooming year, 

And doubly welcome be the spring. 
The season to my Lucy dear ! 



The sun blinks blithe on yon town. 
And on yon bonie braes of Ayr; 

But my delight in yon town. 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms. 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air; 

And she a lovely little flower, 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is she in )'on town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; 
A fairer than's in yon town. 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And suffering I am dooni'd to bear; 

1 careless quit all eLse below. 

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. 

And she — as fairest is her form. 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



A VISION. 

Tune — " Cumnock Psalms." 

As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa' flower scents the dewy 
air. 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy 
bower. 
And tells the midnight moon her care; 

CHORUS. 

A lassie, all alone was making her moan. 
Lamenting our lads beyond the sea: 

In the bluidy wars they fa', and our 
honour's gane an' a'. 
And broken-hearted we maun die. 

The winds were laid, the air was still. 
The stars they shot alaiig the sky; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 

And the distant-echoing glens reply. 



2IO 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 



The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rusliing liy the ruiii'd wa's, 

Hasting to juiii the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant ruarings swell and fa's. 

The cauld l>lue north was streaming forth 
ller lights, wi' hissing, eerie din; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
iJke fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 

His darin look had daunted me: 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain 
The sacred posy — Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 
Might rous'd the slumbering dead to 
hear; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe. 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day. 

He weeping wail'd his latter times; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna venture't in my rhymes. 

O, WERT THOU IN THE 
CAULD BLAST. 

Tune — " The Lass of Livingstone.''' 

O, WERT thou in the cauld blast. 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My ]ilaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest vt'aste. 

Of earth and air, of earth and air. 
The desart were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The only jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 

Tune — " The deuks dang o'er my daddy." 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my Muse's care; 
Their titles a' aie empty show; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

CHORUS. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sa'i rushy, O, 
I set me down wi' right good will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I'll love my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar. 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Farevveel the glen sae bushy, O .' 
Fareweel the plain sae rushy, O ! 
To other lands I now must go. 
To sing my Highland lassie, 0! 

JOCKEY'S FA'EN THE PART- 
ING KISS. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss. 
O'er the mountains he is gane; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 



BONIE ANN. 



211 



Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 
When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome ee, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be! 

He will think on her he loves. 
Fondly he'll repeat her name; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 

PEGGY'S CHARMS. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
Might charm the tirst of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair. 
Her native grace so void of art; 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look that rage disaims, 
These are all immortal charms- 

UP IN THE MORNING 
EARLY. 

CHORUS. 

Up in the morning's no for me, 
Up in the morning early ; 

When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 
Pm sure it's winter fairly. 

CaulI) blavvs the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

Pm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely; 

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 
Pm sure it's winter fairly. 
Up in the morning, &c. 



THO' CRUEL FATE. 

Tho' cruel fate slioukl bid us part, 

As far's the pt)le and line; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 
Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

1 still would love my Jean. 

I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE 
FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING. 
I dream'd I lay where flowers were 
springing 
Gaily in the sunny beam; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring; 
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 
O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

.Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy 'd; 
But lang or noon, loud tempesls storming 

A' my flowery bliss deslroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 

Shepromis'd fair,ardperform'dbutill; 
Of monie a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me stiil. 

BONIE ANN. 
Ye gallants bright, I red you right, 

Beware o' bonie Ann : 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan; 
Sae jimpy lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van; 
In a' theircharms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man : 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonie Ann. 



MY BONIE MARY. 



Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' till it in a silver tassie; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonie lassie. 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And 1 maun leave my bonie Mary. 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

Theglitteringspears are ranked ready; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody; 
But it's no the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; 
Farewell to the forests and uild-hanging woods; 
P'arewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

Tune — " Neil Gow^s iattieiit." 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity. 

That he from our lasses should wander awa; 
For he's bonie and I. raw, weel-favour'd witha'. 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue; 

His fecket as white as the new-driven snaw; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin; 

Weel-featur'd, \\eel-tocher'd. weel-mounted and brawj- 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, 

The pennie's the jewel that beautilies a'. 
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a haen him. 

And .Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha'; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy, 

— But tlip laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'. 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 



213 



THE RANTIN DOG THE 
DADDIE O'T. 

Tune — " East nook o' Fife." 

O WHA iny babie-clouts will buy? 
Wha will tent me when I cry? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie? 
Tlie rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will own he did the faut? 
Wha will buy my groanin maut? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't? 
Tlie rantin dog the daddie o't. 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wlia will crack to me my lane? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART 
SAE FAIR. 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve; 

Had I not found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak, thy heart 
could muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thiiftless o' thy sweets, 

Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud rich in Ae.'x, 
Amang its native briers sae coy, 

How soon it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common toy! 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom a while; 

Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like onie common weed and vile. 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their co'veys thro' the heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed: 
Where the grouse, &c. 

Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, sequester'd clear stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path. 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I ruve, 
While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; 

O' nice education but sma' is her share; 

Her parentage huml)le as humble can be. 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize. 

In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs? 

And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts. 

They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling ee. 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me; 

And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 

O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



214 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER 
DOOR? 

Wha is that at my bower door? 

O wha is it but Fiiullay; 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae hke a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay; 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in; 

Let me in, quo' Findlay; 
Ye'll keep me waukin \vi' your din; 

Indeed will I, quo" Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay; 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain; 

I'll remain, {|uu' Findlay; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again; 

Indeed will I, quo' Finiliay. 
What may pass within this bower — 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

FAREWELL TO NANCY. 

Af. fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! 
Deepin heart- wrung tears I'llpledge thee. 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hojie she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, 
Dark despair around benights me. 
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her, was to love her; 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure. 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 
Warring sighs ami groans I'll wage thee. 

THE BONIE BLINK O' 
MARY'S EE. 

Now bank an' brae arc claith'd in green. 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly sprir.g, 
By Clirvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdie's flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's. 

There wi' my Mary let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonie blink o' Mary's ee ! 

The chield wha boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care; 
But Mary, she is a' my ain, 

Ah, forti'ne canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me. 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonie blink o' Mary's ee ! 

OUT OVER THE FORTH. 

Out over the Forth I look to the nortli, 
But what is the north and its High- 
lands to me? 
The south nor the east gie ease to my 
breast. 
The far foreign land, or the wild 
rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to 
rest. 
That happy my dreams and my 
slumbers may be; 
For far in the w est lives he I lo'e best 
The lad that is dear to my babie ai 
me. 

THE BONIE LAD THAT'S 
FAR AWAY.- 

Tune — "Ouire the hills and far a'aiay." 
O HOW can I be blithe and glad. 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
When the bonie lad tliat I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa? 



BANKS OF DEVON. 



215 



It'£ no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw; 

But ay the tear comes in my ee, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me fiae his door, 

My friends they hae disown'd me a' : 

IJut I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass. 

And spring will deed the birken- 
shaw : 

And my sweet babie will be born, 
And he'll come hame that's far awa. 



THE GOVVDEN LOCKS OF 

ANN.A. 

Tune — " Banks 0/ Banna." 

Ykstrkf.N I had a pint o' wine, 
A place where l)ody saw na'; 

Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 
The gowden locks of Anna. 



The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naelliiiig to my hiiiny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 
Ve monarchs, tak the east and west, 

l-'rac Indus to Savannah ! 
("jie me within my straining grasp 

The melting f^rm uf Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms. 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While <Iying raptures in her arms, 

1 give and take with Anna! 

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven i)hnnage, night, 

Sun, moon, and slais «ilhtlrawn a'; 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 

POSTSCRlFr. 

The kirk and state may join, and tell 

To do such things I mauna: 
The kirk and state may gae to hell. 

And I'll gae to my Anna. 
She is the sunshine o' my ee. 

To live but her I canna; 
Ilail I on earth but wishes three. 

The first should be my Anna. 



BANKS OF DEVON. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ! 

But the boniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 
With chill lioary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The vertlure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 

And ICngland triumjihant display her proud rose; 

A fairer than either ailorns the green valleys 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



2l6 



THE DEIL'S A WA WP THE EXCISEMAN. 



ADOWN WINDING NIIH. 

Tune — " The muckin o GcoidWs byre.'''' 

AoowN winding Nith 1 ditl wander, 
To mark the sweet llmvers as they 
spring; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of rhiliis to muse and to sing. 

Avva \vi' your belles and your beauties. 
They never wi' her can compare; 

Whaever has met wi' my I'hillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 
So artless, so simple, so wild; 

Thou eml)lem, said l,o' my Phillis, 
I'or she is Simplicity's child. 
Awa, \c. 

The rose-bud's the blush n' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how jiure is the lily. 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, \:c. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Pliillis cau vie : 

Her breath is the lireath o' the woodbine. 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, &c. 

Hei' voice is the st)ng of the morning 
Tliat w akes tliroiigh tlie green-spread- 
ing grove 
Wlienl'hcclnis ]ieeps over the mountains, 
On nmsic, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, i\:c. 

Bui lieaiily how frail and how fleeting, 
The bloom of a line summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Awa, &c. 

STREAMS THAT GLIDE. 

Tune — " Morag" 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by w inter's chains ! 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 



These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
1 leave to tyrants and their slaves; 
Olive me the stream that sweetly laves 
The lianks by Oastle Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay. 
Shading from the liurning ray 
Hapless wretches sokl to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: 
Woods that ever verda'it wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
Give me the groves that ioftv brave 
'1 he storms, by Oastle (.Gordon. 

Wililly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole; 
In that Sober peiisi\e mootl. 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood; 
Lite's poor day I'll nuisingrave, 
And lind at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and w ild woods wave. 
By bonie Oastle Gordon. 



THE DEIL'S AWA' WP THE 
EXCISEMAN. 

Till'. De'il cam fiddling thro' the town. 
And tianc'd awa wi' the I'Aciseinan; 

And ilka wife cry'd " Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' your prize, man. 

" We'll mak our maut, and brew our 
drink. 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, 
man ; 
And monie thanks to the mucklc 
black De'il 
That danc'd awa wi' the Excise- 
man. 

"There's threesome reels, and foursome 

reels, 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, 
man ; 
But the ae liest dance e'er cam to our Ian', 
Was — the De'il's awa wi' the Excise 
man. 
We'll mak our maut," (S:c. 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS. 



217 



BLITHE HAK I BEEN ON 
YON UlLL. 

Tune — " Liggerain cosh." 

Blitiik. hac I hecn on you liill, 

As the lambs before uie; 
Careless ilka tliou};lit and free, 

As the breeze llew o'er inc : 
Now nae langer siiort ami play, 

Mirth or sanj;; can please me; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Iloiieiess love declaring: 
Trembling, 1 dow nocht but glowr, 

Sij^hing, dumb, desjiairing! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling, 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



O WERE MY LOVl<: YON 
LILAC FAIR. 

Ti'NE — " llushie Craluim." 

O WERK my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' iHni>le blossoms t(j the spring; 

And I, a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my little wing; 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 



lUil I wad sing on wanton wing, 
When youthfu' May its bloom 
new'd. 

C) gin my love were yon red rose 
'I hat grows ujion the castle wa', 

And 1 my^el' a drap o' dew, 
Into her bonic lircast to fa'! 

Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night; 

.Seal'd on her silU-saft faulds to rest, 
Till lley'd awa' by I'luebus' light. 



COMIC, Li: r ME TAKE TIIEE. 



Tl'NlS - 



Caiihi kaiir 



CoMK, let mc take thee to my breast. 

And ]iledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur: 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal trans|iiirts move her? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

'I'hat I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I clas]) my countless treasure; 
I'll seek nae mair o heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's ])Iensure : 
And by thy een, sae bonie blue, 

I swear I'm thine forever! 
And on thy li]is I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS. 

Tune — " Saw ye my Father? " 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning. 
That danc'd to the lark's early sang? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods ainang? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river. 
And marking sweet tlow'rets so fair: 

No more I trace the light footstejjs of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 



2l8 



MY CHLORIS. 



Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover. 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caus'd this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow: 
Come, then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish. 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



O SAW YE MY DEAR. 

Tune — " When she cam ben she bobbii." 

O SAW ye my dear, my Phely? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new 
love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee 
forgot. 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's 
fair, 
Thou'st broken the heart o' thy Willy. 

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, 
JAMIE. 

Tune — "Fee him, father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never 1 



Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, 

While my heart is breaking; 
Soon my weary een I'll close — 

Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken ! 



MY CHLORIS. 

Tune — " My lodging is on the cold ground." 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves. 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers. 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe, in the birken shavv. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn? 



O PHILLY. 



219 



The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a liner tale, 
But is his heart as true? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'u, to 
deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtier's gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. 

Tune — " Dainty Davie." 

It vi'as 'he charming month of May, 
When aU the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies. 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rival'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
I-ovely was she, &c. 

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER 
COMPLAIN. 

Tune — " Duncan Gray." 

Let not woman e'er complaia 
Of inconstancy in love. 

Let not woman e'er complain, 
Fickle man is apt to rove : 



Look abroad through Nature's range. 
Nature's mighty law is change; 

Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
.Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man. 

To oppose great Nature's plan? 

We'll be constant while we can — 
You can be no more, you know. 



O PHILLY. 

Tune — " The sow's tail.' 



O Philly, happy be that day 
When, roving thro' the gather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stown away. 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 



O Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love. 
Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers 
above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 



As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, 
.So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 



As on the brier the budding rose 
.Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 



The milder sun and bluer sky. 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sne welcome to my eye 
As is the siglit o' Philly. 



220 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 



The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

HE. 
The bee that ihro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flrwer, 
Compai'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 

As is a kiss o' Willy. 
HE, 
Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may 

win ; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 

And that's my ain dear Philly. 

SHE. 

What's a' the joys than gowd can gie ! 
I care na wealth a single flie; 
The lad I love's the lad for me, 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 

JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

A r.ALLAD. 

There was three Kings into the east, 
Three Kings both great and high, 

And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough'd him 
down. 

Put clods upon his head. 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerfu' Spring came kindly on. 

And show'rs began to fall; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong, 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 



The sober Autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age; 
And then his enemies began 

To shew their deadly rrge. 

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgell'd him full sore; 

They hung him up before the storm. 
And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor. 

To work him farther woe, 
And still, as signs of life appear'd. 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame. 

The marrow of his bones; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

Lorhecrush'dhim between two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drank it round and round; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise. 
For if you ilo but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise; 

'Twill make a man forget his wet; 

'Twill heighten all his joy: 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD. 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME 
THUS? 

Tune — "Roy's IVt/e." 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Canst thou leave me thus, niy Katy? 
Well thv)u know'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy i)lighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 
Canst thou, (S:c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
Thou may'st find those will love thee 
dear — 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, &c. 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL 

Tune — " Aye wauJiin a." 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 



Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish, 

While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish? 
Long, iSic. 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror; 
Slumber e'en I dread. 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c. 

Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine. 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, &c. 



WHEN GUILFORD GOOD 
OUR PILOr SiOOD. 



TUNE- 



KKACiMENT. 

" Gillicrankie. 



When Guilford good our Pilot stood, 

An' did our hellim thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea. 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man; 
An' did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

1 wat he was na slaw, man; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And C"arleton did ca', man : 
Put yet, what-reck, he, at (Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Cage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha', man; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Piiiladelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Ciuid Christian bluid to draw, man, 
But at New York, wi' knife an' fork. 

Sir Loin he hacked sma', man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought. 

An' did the Buckskins claw, man; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the 
stoure. 

The German Chief to thraw, man: 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box. 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 



FARFAVELL TO ELIZA. 



Then Rockingham took up the game; 

Till death did on him ca', man; 
When Shelburne meek helduphis cheek. 

Conform to gospel law, man; 
Saint Stephen's boys, \vi' jarring noise, 

They (.lid his measures thraw, man, 
For North an' Fox united stocks. 

An' bore him to the \va', man. 

Then Clubs an' Hearts were Charlie's 
cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the Diamond's Ace, of Indian race. 

Led him a i>MX faux pas, man: 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man ! " 

Behind the throne then Grenville'sgone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee L^undas arous'd the class " 

Be-north the Roman wa', man: 
An' Chatham's wraith. inheavenlygraith, 

(Inspired Bardies saw, man.) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, "Willie, rise ! 

Would I hae fear'd them a', man ? " 

But, word an' blow. North, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff"il Wdlie like a ha', man, 
Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man; 
An' Caledon thiew by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood. 

To make it guid in law, man. 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 

Ti'NE — " Corn rigs are honied 

It was upon a I.ammas night. 

When corn rigs are bonie. 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by, wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To sec me thro' the barley. 



The sky was blue, the wind was still. 

The moon was shining clearly; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley; 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain; 

I lov'd her most sincerely; 
I kiss'd her owre and o«re again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace; 

Her heart was beating rarely; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She ay shall bless that happy night 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear; 

I hae been merry drinking; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; 

I hae been happy thinking: 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times iloubl'd fairly. 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CUORl'S. 

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs. 

An' corn rigs are bonie : 
I'll ne'er, forget that happy night, 

Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 

FAREWELL TO ELIZA. 

Tune — " GilJeroy." 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar: 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide. 

Between my Love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee^.- 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I atlcre ! 
A boiling voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by. 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 

And thine that latest sigh ! 



JVOIF WEST LI aW winds. 



2;»3 



MY NANIR, O. 

Behind yon bills where Stinchar flows, 
'Mang moors an' mosses many, (), 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa' to Nanie, O. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The night's baitli mirk and rainy, O : 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hill to Nanie, C). 

My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young : 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, (): 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nanie, O. 

Her face is fair, lier heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonie, O: 

The oii'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nanie, O. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there he that ken me, O; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nanie, O. 

My riches a's my penny-fee. 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a', my Nanie, O. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; 

But I'm as blythe that bauds his pleugh. 
An' has nae care but Nanie, O. 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak what lleav'n will send me, O; 

Nae itlier care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nanie, O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 
CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O; 

Green grow the rashes, O; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, O ! 



There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O; 

\\'lK\t signilies the life o' man. 
An' 'lucre na for the lasses, O. 
CJreen grow, <S:c. 

The warly race m.ay riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, c>i:c. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my tlearie, O; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 
Green grow, cS:c. 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O: 

The wisest man the warl' saw. 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 
Green grow, tVc. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O; 

Her jircntice ban' she tried on man, 
An' then she made the lasses,. O. 
Green grow, &c. 



NOW WESTLIN WINDS. 

Tune — " I had a horse, I had nae mair." 

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring 
guns 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring 
wings, 
Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer; 
And the moon shines bright, when I 
rove at night 
To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells; 

The jilover k)ves the mountains; 
The woodcock loves the lonely dells; 

The soaring hern the fountains: 



224 



THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 



Thio' lofty groves Ihe cushat roves, 
The path of man to shun it; 

The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 
'Ihe spreailing thorn ihe linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure tind. 

The savage ami the temier; 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander; 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The llutt'ring, gory pinion I 

But, Teggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 
Thick Hies the skimming swallow; 



The sky is blue, the fields in view, 
All fading-green and yellow: 

Come let us stray our gladsome way, 
And view the charms of nature; 

The rustling ct)rn, the fruited thorn, 
And ev'ry happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

S\\ ear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding tlow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer. 
So dear can be, as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer! 



THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 

Tune — " Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's Jly." 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to tight, 
No sly man ul business contriving a snare. 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I ilon't envy, I give him his bow; 

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; 

But a club of good fellows, like those that are there, 

And a battle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; 
But see you the Ciown how it waves in the air. 
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die; 
For sweet consolation to church I did Hy ; 
I found that old Soh>mon proved it fair. 
That the big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persiiaded a venture to make; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs. 
With a glorious bottle that emled my cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts," a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown. 
And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care. 

A STANZA ADUEI) IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a buiniier, and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic ])repare for to throw; 
May t;very true brotlier of the compass and square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 



THE FAREWELL. 



225 



THE AUTHOR'S FARKWKLL 
TO HIS NA riVE COUN TRY. 

Tune — " Rosliit Castle" 

The gloomy niijlit is gatirritig fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon nuuky cloud is foul with rain, 
■ I see it driving o'er the jilain; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scattered coveys meet secure, 
While here I vvantler, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn; 
Across her ])lacid, azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly: 
C'hill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. 

Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear: 
But round my heart the ties are bt)und, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a 

wound : 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales. 
Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhajipy loves! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my 

foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with 

those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr. 

THE FAREWELL. 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES's LODGE, 
TARUOLTON. 

Tune — "Guid nighty and joy be "wV you a' " 

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu! 

Dear Iirotheis of tiie mystic tie! 
Ye favour'tl, ye enlighten'd few. 

Companions of my social joy ! 



Tho' I to foreign lands must hie. 
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba'. 

With melting heart, and iirimful eye, 
I'll miml you still, tho' far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band. 

And spent the cheerful, festive night; 
Oft, honour'd with sujireme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa' 1 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath th' Omniscient eye above. 

The glorious Architect Divine! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plununet's law. 
Till Older bright, completely shine. 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

And You, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name. 

To Masonry and Scotia dear! 
A last request jiermit mc here, 

When yearly ye assemble a'. 
One round, I ask it with a tear. 

To him, the Bard that's far awa'. 

AND MAUN I STH.L ON 

An':NH<: do at. 

Tune — " yockie's grey iirceks." 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Iler robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly sleep'd in morning dews. 



And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? 

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk. 
An' it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to nie the vi'lets spring; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 
And maun I still, &c. 



226 



AULD LANG SYNE. 



The merry ploughboy clieers liis team, 
Wi' joy tlm U'litie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A (heam of aiic that never wauks. 
y\iid maun 1 still, \-c. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
Anil every thing is blest but I. 
And maun 1 still, &c. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And ov^'re the nioorlanils whistles 
shill, 
Wi' wild, unequal, \\and'ring step 
1 meet him i)n the dewy hill. 
And maun I still, (S:c. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and 
dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side. 
And mounts and sings on llittering 
wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist T haineward glide. 
Antl maun I still, &c. 

Come Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree; 
Thy glooni will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When Nature all is sad like me ! 
And maun I still on Menie doat. 
And bear the scorn that's in her 
e'e? 
For its jet, jet black, an' its like a 
hawk. 
An' it winna let a body be ! 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune — " Katharine O^ie." 

Yk banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your 
flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes. 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 



How sweetlyl)loom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me, as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a \o\\\ and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
Anil, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore our^els asunder; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the 
clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary 1 

() jiale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

1 aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for ay the sjiarkling glance. 

That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
And niould'ring now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



AULD LAN(; SYNE. 

SiioiM.i) aidd acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min'? 

.Should auld ac(|uaintance i)e forgot, 
And days o' lang syne? 

cuoiuis. 

For aidd lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For au!d lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes. 

And |)u'd the gowans line; 
But we've \\ander'd mony a wenry foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn. 

From mornin sun till dine; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 




Scots, wha ha'e *" 



Paffc 2Z1 



BANNOCKBURN. 



227 



And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And j^ie's a hand u' tliine; 
And we'll tak a rij^ht guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 
For aukl, tVc. 
And surely ye'U be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine; 
And we'll tak a eup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 



BANNOCKBURN. 

ROBERT BRUCE's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Tune — " Hey tiittie tattie." 

Scots, wha hae \vi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victoria. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lower; 
See approach proud Kdvvard's power - 
Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 

'I'raitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's King and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'? 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall — they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
'I'yrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



THE G.ALLANT WEAVER. 

Tune — " The auldiuife ayont the fire,'" 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea. 
By monie a flow'er and spreading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 



Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine; 
And 1 was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, 
'l"o gie the lacl that has the land; 
But to my heart I'll aild my hand. 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
While bees rejoice in o])ening flowers; 
While corn grows green in simmer 
showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



SONG. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom Are, 
And waste my soul with care; 

But ah ! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. 
To hope may be forgiven; 

For sure, 'twere impious to despair 
So nmch in sight of heaven. 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that? 
The c(5v\ard-slave, we pass him by. 
We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea stamp; 
The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 
Wear hodden-grey, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. 
Yox a' that, and a' that. 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 
Is King o' men for a' that. 



228 



DAINTY DAVIE. 



Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

VVha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Tho' hundreds worsliip at his word, 
He's but a conf for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 
Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' 
worth, 
Are higher rank than a' ihat. 

Then let us pray that come it may. 

As come it will for a' that; 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 

That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 

DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay, green spreading 

bowers; 
And now comes in my happy hours. 
To wander wi' my Davie. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa'. 
The merry birds are lovers a'. 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 

When purple morning starts the hare. 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then through the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 



When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, 
1 flee to his arms 1 lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Tune — " The hopeless loi'cr." 
Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers; 
The furrovv'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart. 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was once that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I; 
But love, wi' unrelenting l)eam. 

Has scorch'd my fountain dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine; till love has o'er me past. 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs. 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power. 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love in luckless hour. 

Made me the thrall o' care. 
O had my fate been Greenland's snows 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " Hope nae 
mair ! 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



CALEDONIA. 



229 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole 
So marks his latest sun. 



To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy? 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That till thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 



She, the fair sun of all her sex, 

Has blest my glorious day : 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray? 

WHY, WHY TELL THY 
LOVER. 

Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's delight." 
Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy? 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie? 

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme! 

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream? 



CALEDONIA. 

"Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's delight." 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young, 

That biave Caledonia, the chief of her line. 
From some of your northern deities sprung : 

(Who knows not that Ijrave Caledonia's divine?) 
From Tweed to the Oicades was her domain, 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there tixed her reign, 

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war. 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; 
Her grandsire, old Odin triumphantly swore, 

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall r\\» \ " 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn : 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 

Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand; 
Repeated, successive, fiir many long years. 

They darkeii'd the air, and they plunder'd the land. 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 

They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly. 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north. 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; 

The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore : 



230 



ON THE BA TTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. 



O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, 
No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; 

But brave C'aleilonia in vain they assail'd. 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 



The Camcleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; 
Provok'd bcvoiul bearing, at last she arose. 

And robb\l him at once ol his hopes and his life: 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prow ling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bohl, inilcpcndcnt, uncon<iuiM\l, ami free, 

Her briglit course of glory for ever shall run: 
For brave C'aledonia immortal must be; 

I'll prove it from Kuclid as clear as the sun: 
Rectangle-iri.xngle, the ligure we'll choose. 

The upright is Chance, and oKl Time is the base; 
But brave L'aledonia's tlie hypothenuse; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, ami matcli them always. 



ON THE B.VnLE OF 
SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BETWEEN THE Dl'KE OF ARGVLE AND THE 
E.^RL OF MAK. 



TUNE- 



The Camerouian rant" 



"O CAM ye here the fight to shun. 
Or herd tlie sheep wi' me, man? 
Or were you at the Sherra-muir, 
And did the battle see, man ? " 
I saw the battle, sair and teugh. 
And reeking-red ran nionie a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough. 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at Kingdoms three, 
man. 



The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 
To meet them were na slaw, man; 

They rush'd and push'd, and blude out- 
gush 'd. 
And monie a bouk did fa', man : 

And great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles: 



They hack'd and hash'd, while broad- 
swords clash'd, 

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and 
smash'd. 
Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs. 
And skyrin tartan trews, nian, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

Ami covenant true blues, man; 
In lines extended laiig and large. 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe. 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out of breath. 
They fled like frighted doos, man. . 

"O how deil, Tam, can that be true? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man : 
1 saw mysel, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man; 
And at Dumblane, in my nin sight. 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd. their 

tlight; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut. 
And nionie a huntit. poor red-coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 



O VVHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME? 



231 



My sister Kate cam up the gate 

\Vi' crowdie imto ine, man; 
She swme she saw some rebels run 

Frae I'erth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand ij;eneral had nae skill, 
The An<j;us lads had nae guid-will, 
That day their neebors' blood to spill; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes, 
And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amang the Highland clans, man; 

I fear my lord Tanmure is slain. 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man : 

Now wad ye sing this double fight. 

Some fell for wraiig, and some for right; 

l?ut monie bade the world guid-night; 

Then ye mav tell, how pell and niell, 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dving yell, the tories fell. 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 

THE DUMFRn':S VOLUN- 
TEERS. 

Tune — " Push about the jorum." 

A/o-il, 1759. 
DOKS haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let the loons beware. Sir, 
There's wooden walls ujion our seas. 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to llorsincon, 

And CrilTel sink to Solway, 
Er^ wc permit a foreign foe 
On British giound to rally ! 

Fal de ral, &c. 

O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided; 
Till, slap, come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Briiain true, 

Amang oursels united; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted ! 

Fal de ral, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state. 
Perhaps a claut may fail in't; 

But deil a foreign tinkler loon 
.Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 



Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought. 
And wha watl dare to spoil it; 

By Iieaven, the sacrilegious tlog 
Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fal de ral, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 

Anil the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the 
throne. 

May they be danmed together ! 
Wlu) will not sing, " tiod save the King," 

Shall liang as high's the steeple; 
But while we sing, " (lod save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the I'eople. 

O WHA IS SHE THA r LO'ES 
ME? 

* Tune — " Hlo>\ig." 

O WM.A. is she that lo'es me. 
And has my heart a-kceping? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 



O that's the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer; 
O that's the queen o' womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie. 

In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming. 
Mad ne'er sic powers alarming; 
O that's, &c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted. 

And thou art all delighted; 

O that's, &c. 

If thou hast met this fair one; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one. 

But her, thou hast ileserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted; 
() that's, iVc. 



232 



O, ONCE I LOVED A BON IE LASS. 



CAFFAIN GROSE. 

Tune — " Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo, and ago. 
If he's amang his friends or foes? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North? 

Igo, and ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain l>y Highland bodies? 

Igo, and ago. 
And eaten like a wether-haggis? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abrara's bosom gane? % 

Igo, and ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, and ago. 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago. 
Which «ill t)blige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo, and ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
The coins o' .Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



WHISTLE OWRE THE 
L.A.VE O'T. 

First when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair- 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 



Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonie Meg was nature's child — 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd; — 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me. 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see — 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 

Wha I wish were inaggots' meat, 
Disird up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't — 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 

O, ONCE I LOV'D A BONIE 
LASS. 

Tune — " f am a Man unmarried." 
O, ONCE I lov'd a bonie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 
I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Fal lal de val, &c. 

As bonie lasses I hae seen, 

And monie full as bravv. 
But for a modest grace fu' mien 

The like I never saw, 

A bonie lass, I will confess 

Is pleasant to the ee, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, 

And v\ hat is best of a'. 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat. 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars onie dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
5lay slightly touch the heart. 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

' Tis this enchants my soul ! 
For absolutely in my bieast 

She reigns \\ithout control. 

Fal lal de ral, &c. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 



233 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' li5i;luly danc'tl lie in the ha'! 
He roos'd my een sae b<Miie blue, 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma'; 
An' aye my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weed, thro' frost and 
snaw; 
And o'er the lea I look fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
An' aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a'; 
An' aye he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



MTHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

FAREWKi,i,,ye dungeonsdaik and strong, 

The wretch's destinie : 
M'Pherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows tree. 

CHORUS. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he; 
He play'd a spring and danc'd it 
round. 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death h\A parting breath? — 

On monie a bloody pl'^in 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Sae rantingly, &c. 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 
And l)ring to me my sword ! 

And there's no a man in all Scotland, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 

Sae rantingly, &c. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; 

I die by treaclierie : 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly, &c. 



Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky 1 
May coward shame disdain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, &c. 

THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 

Tune — " The Dragon of IVautley," 
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw 

That Scot to Scot did carry; 
And dire the discord Langside saw. 

For beauteous, hapless Mary: 
But .Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen. Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous 
job — 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. 
This Hal for genius, wit, and lore. 

Among the hrst was number'd; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Conmiandnient *he tenth remember'd. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got. 

And won his heart's desire; 
Which shews thatheaven can boil the pot. 

Though the devil piss in the tire. 
Squire Hal besides had, in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualiticalions saucy; 
So their w orships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Choseone whoshould owe it all, d'ye see. 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 
As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son (jf Circumci>ion, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's jiurblind, mental vision; 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him. 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 
In your heretic sins may ye live and die. 

Ye heretic eight and thirty ! 
But accept, ye sublime Majority, 

My congratulations hearty. 
With your Himors and a certain King, 

In your servants this is striking — 
The more incapacity they bring. 

The more they're to your liking. 



234 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 



I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And liy yon garden green again; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonie Jean again. 
There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail 
guess. 

What brings me back the gate again. 
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass, 

And stownlins we sail meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree 

When tr) slin-tiiiie draws near again; 
And when her lovely form 1 see, 

haith, she's doubly dear again ! 

A BOTTLE AND FRIEND. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ve wish for niair, man? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be o' care, man? 
Then catch the moments as they fly. 

And use them as ye ought, man : — 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not ay when sought, man. 

I'LL KISS THEE YET. 

Tune — " The Braes o' Balqiihitider." 
CHORUS. 
I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

And I'll kiss thee o'er again, 
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 
My bonie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

1 ever mair defy them, O; 

Young Kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 
When in my arms, \vi' a' thy charms, 

T clasji my countless treasure, O; 
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 

And by thy een sae lionie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O; — 

And on thy lips 1 seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 

Tune — " I/he be a Butcher neat afui trim." 

On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; 

Could I describe her shape and mien; 
Our lasses a' she far excels, 

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



She's sweeter than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus hrst is seen. 

And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And drinks the stream wiih vigour fresh ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn 
With fiow'rs so white and leaves so 
green. 
When jHirest in the dewy morn; 

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her looks are like the vernal May, 
When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene, 

While birds rejoice on every spray; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That climbs the mountain-sides at 
e'en, ' 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry b >w, 
When gleaming sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, 
The pride of all the flowery scene, 

Just opening on its thorny stem; 

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 



YOUNG PEGGY. 



235 



Her teeth are like the nightly snow 

When pale the nK)rnin<j rises keen, 
While hid the murmuring streamlets 
flow; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen ; 
They tempt the taste and charm the 
sight; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep : 
An' she has twa glancin' sparklin' 
een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently st'rs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

He. voice is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen. 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

*Tis 'the mind that shines in ev'ry 
grace, 
An' chiefly in her rogueish een. 



PRAYER FOR MARY. 

Tune — " Blue Bonnets." 

Powers celestial, whose protection 
■ Ever guards the viituous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care: 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 



Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me^ 

Make her bosom still my home. 



YOUNG PEGGY. 

Ti'NE — " Last time I cam o'er the Muir." 

YoUNC Peggy blooms our bonniest 
lass, 

Mer blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 

With early gems adorning: 
Her eyes outsliinc the radiant beams 

That gild the ]5assing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has grac'd them; 
They charm tii' admiring gazer's sight. 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting. 
And little lambkins wanton wild. 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As iilooming Spring unbends the 
brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Distraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen; 
And fretful Envy grins in vain. 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and 
Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her; 
Inspire the highly favour'd youth 

The destinies intend her; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom; 
And bless the dear jiarental name 

With many a fllial blosson:. 



236 



TO MAR Y. 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME. 

A SONG. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey: 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and muriierous wars; 
We dare na weel say't, hut we ken wha's to blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yard; 
It brak the sweet heart t)' my faitiifu' auld dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; 
But till my last moment my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



THERE WAS A LAD. 

Tune — " Dainty Davie." 

There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But what'n a day o' what'n a style 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was hve-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof. 
Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes treat and sma', 
But ay a heart aboon them a'; 
He'll be a credit till us a'. 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 



But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you, Sir, 
Ye gar the lassies lie aspar. 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 
So blessings on thee, Robin ! 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 

Robin was a rovin Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

TO MARY. 

Tune — " Ewe-biishts, Marion." 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across the Atlantic's roar? 

O sweet grows the lime and tfte orange 
And the apple on the pine; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 



THE SODGER'S RETURN. 



?37 



I hae sworn by Ihe Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn bytlie Heavens to be true; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 

A till plight nie your lily-white hand; 

O plight me your faith, iny Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual aflection to join. 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o' time ! 

MARY MORISON. 

Tune — " Bide ye yet." 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the tiysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see. 

That makes the miser's treasure poor; 
How l)lythely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could 1 tiie rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

" Ve are nae Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle cann? be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

THE SODGER'S RETURN. 

Tune — " The Mill Mill O." 

When wild war's deadly blast was 
blawn, 
And gentle peace returning, 



Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 
And mony a widow mourning : 

I left the lines and tented field, 
Where lang I'd been a lodger. 

My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 
A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast. 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonie glen, 

Where early life I sported; 
I pass'd the mill, and tiysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling! 
And turn'd me rounil to hitle the flood 

That in my een w as swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, Sweet lass. 
Sweet as yon hawthorn blossom, 

! happy, happy may he be. 
That's dearest to thy bosom ! 

My purse is light, I've far to gang, 
And fain wad be thy lodger; 

I've serv'd my King and Country lang — 
Take pity on a sodger ! 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me. 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never: 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare. 

Ye freely shall partake it. 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like onie lily; 
She sank within my arms, and cried. 

Art thcu my ain dear Willie? 
By Him who made yon sun and sky, 

By whom true love's regarded, 

1 am the man; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded ! 



238 



A/y FATHER WAS A FARMER. 



The wars aic o'er, ami I'm come liame, 

And liiul thee still true-hearicd; 
Tho' jioor ill j;car, we're rich in love, 

Ami niair we'se ne'er he parted. 
Quo' she, My <^randsire left me gowd, 

A niailen pleiiish'd fairly; 
And come, my faitliful sodger lad, 

'liiou'rl welcome to it dearly ! 



l'"or gold the merchant plouj^hs the main. 

The fanner ploughs the manor; 
liut glory is the sodgcr's prize; 

The sodger's wealth is honour : 
The lirave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his Country's stay 

In day and hour o' danger. 



MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 

Ti'Nn: — " The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O 

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O 

He hade me act a maidy part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O 

For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O 
Tho' to lie rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O 
My talents they were not the worst : nor yet my education, O 
Rcsolv'd was 1, at least to tiy, to mend my situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour; O 
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; sometimes by friends forsaken ; O 
And when my hope was at the top, 1 still was worst mistaken, O. 

Then si)re harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion; O 
1 dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion; O 
The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried; O 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nt>r view had I; nor person to befriend me; O 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O 
To plough ami sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early; O 
For one, he said, to labour bred, w as a match for fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O 
Till down my weary boiu-s I lay in everlasting slumber; O 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow; O 
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O 

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice- O 

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther; O 

But as daily bread is all I need, 1 do not much regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour 1 earn a little money, O 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me; O 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly; O 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O 

All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardour, O 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther; 
Mad you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O 
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefev before you, O. 



WHEN FIRST I CAME TO STEWART KYLE. 



239 



A M(yrHl<:R'S I.AIMENT FOR 
THE DEA Til OF HER SON. 

Ti'Nic — " FiulaystoH House." 

Fatk gave the wonl, the arrow sped, 

Aiul piercM my darling's lieart; 
And vvilli liini all the jo\ s are lied 

Life can to me impart! 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust tlishonuur'd laid: 
So fell the jiriile of all my hopes. 

My age's future shade. 

The molherdinnct in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young; 
So I, for my lost darling's saUe, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, iift I've feared thy fatal blow, 

Now, fond, I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him 1 love, at rest ! 

BON IE LESLEY. 

Tune — " The Collier's bonie Doc liter." 

O SAW yc bonie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her concjuests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 

And love but her for ever; 
For Nature made her what she is. 

And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen. Fair Lesley, 
Til)' subjects we, before thee: 

Thou art divine, Fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee; 

He'd look into thy bonie face. 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers .aboon will tent thee; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. 

That ill they'll ne'^r let near thee. 

Return again. Fair Lesley, 

Return to t'alcdonie! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's naue again sae bonie. 



AMANG THE TREES. 

Ti'NE — " The King of France, he rnde a 
race." 

y\,MAN(; the trees where liunnning bees 

At buds and llowers were hinging, 
Auld Caledon drew out iier drone. 

And to her pipe was singing; (.) 
'Twas Pibrocii, Sang, Strallispey, or 
Reels, 

She dirl'd them alT fu' clearly, O 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels. 

That clang her tapsalteerie, O — 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's. 

They made our lugs grow eerie; O 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and wearie: O — 
But a ri)yal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A jirisoncr aughteen year awa, 
lie iir'd a tiddler in the north 

That tlang them tapsalteerie, (). 



WHEN FIRST I CAME TO 
STEWART KYLE. 

TuNK — " / hada horse and I had itae mair" 
WiiKN first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was na steady. 
Where'er 1 gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I hail aye: 
But when I came roun' by Mauchline 
town. 

Not drcadin' onie body, 
My heart was caught i)efore I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY UKAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 
MRS. DUNI.Ol', OF DUNt.OP. 

Air — " Sensilnlity." 

Sknsihii.ity, how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 

But distress, with horriirs arming. 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray: 

I>et the blast sweep o'er the valley. 
See it prostrate on the clay. 



240 



O RAG TNG FORTUNE'S WITHERING BLAST. 



Hear ihe wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys; 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 
'lo each pirale of the skies. 

Dearly bought tiie hidden treasure 
Finer feelings can bestow; 

Chords that \il)iate sweetest pleasure 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



MONTGOMERIE'S PEGGY. 



TUNE- 



Calla Water.' 



Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would 1 be, 

Had 1 my dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms. 
And winter nightsweredarkandrainy, 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

Were I a T?aron proud and high. 

And horse and servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, 

Thesharin't wi' Montgomerie's Peggy. 



ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lightly drest. 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep opprest; 

When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood. 
Who for her favf)ur oft had sued; 
Hegaz'd,he wish 'd, he fear'd,he blush'd, 
And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose; 
Her lips, still as she fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'il the rose. 

The springing lilies sweetly prest. 
Wild-wanton kiss'd her rival breast; 
He gaz'd.he wish'd,he fear'd,he blush'd. 
His bosom ill at rest. 



Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace ! 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace ! 

Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 
A f.iltering ardent kiss he stole; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd. 
And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake 

On fear-insjiired wings; 
So Nelly, starting, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs : 

But Willie follow'd — as he should. 
He overtook her in the wood: 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 
Forgiving all, and good. 



O RAGING FORTUNE'S 
WITHERING BLAST. 

O KAG1N(^. fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O 

O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O. 

My stem was fair, my bud was green. 
My blossom sweet did blow; O 

The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild. 
And made my branches grow; O. 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 

EVAN BANKS. {See vote>^ 

Tune — " Savourna Delis/i." 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires. 
The sun from India's shore retires: 
To Evan Banks with tempVate ray. 
Home of my youth, he leads the day. 

Oh Banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh stream, whose murmur still I hear! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 



TO MAR Y IN HE A VEM. 



241 



And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast; 
Wlio trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye : 

Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline? 
Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde? 

Ve lofty Banks that Evan bound, 
Ve lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below; 

What secret charm to mem'ry brings. 
All that on Evan's border springs ! 
Sweet Banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to 
Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ! 
Return, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 
And lly lo meet a kindred heart! 
No more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to 
Clyde ! 



WOMEN'S MINDS. 

Tune — " For a that." 

Tho' women's minds like winter winds 
May shift and turn, and a' that. 

The noblest breast adores them maist, 
A consequence I draw that. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as meikle's a' that. 

The bonie lass that I loe best 
She'll be my ain for a' that. 

Great love I bear to all the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a' that; 

«utl,rdly will, I hold it still 
A nicirtal sin to thraw that. 
Fur a' tliat, &c. 



But there is ane aboon the lave, 
Has wit, and sense, and a' that; 

A bonie lass, I like her best, 
And wha a crime dare ca that? 
For a' that, &c. 

In rapture sweet this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love and a' that; 

But for how lang the flic may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 
For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, and a' that; 
But clear vour decks, and here's "The 
Sex ! " 
I like tlie jades for a' that. 
For a' that, &c. 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Tune — " A/iss Forbes' farewell to Banff." 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray. 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary I dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans thr.t rend his 
breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget? 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'crhung with wild woods, thick'ning 
green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd 
scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on ev'ry spray. 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 



242 



SWEETEST MAY. 



Still o'er these scenes my meni'ry wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time hut the impression deeper makes, 

As streams tlieir channels deeperwear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Wiiere is thy blissful })lace of rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

llear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast? 

TO MARY. 

Coui-D aught of song declare my pains. 
Could artful numbers move thee. 

The Muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 
O Mary, how I love thee ! 

They who but feign a wounded heart 
May teach the lyre to languish; 

But what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 
The heart-felt pang discover; 

And in the keen, yet tender eye, 
O read th' imploring lover ! 

For well I know thy gentle mind 
Disdains art's gay disguising; 

Beyond what fancy e'er relin'd, 
The voice of nature prizing. 

O LEAVE NOVELS. 

p LEA\'E novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ve're safer at your spinning wheel; 

Such \\ itching books are baited hooks 
r'or rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 

Xowx fine Tom Jones and drandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel, 

They heatyour brains, and lire your veins, 
Antl then vou're prey for Rob Moss- 
giel. ' 

I'eware a tongue that's smoothly hung; 

A heart that warmly seems to feel; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 

The frank address, the soft caress. 
Are worse than poison'd darts of steel, 

The frank address, and politesse, 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL 
DUMOURIER. 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 

You're welcome to Despots, I>umou- 

rier; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier; 
How does Dampier do? 
Aye, and ISournonville too? 
Why did they not come along \\ith yon, 
Dumourier? 

I will light France with you, Dumourier; 
I will light France with you, Dumourier; 
I will tight France with you, 
I will take my chance with you ; 
Hy my soul V\\ dance a dance with you, 
Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 
Then let us tight about, Dumourier; 
Then let us light about, 
Till freedom's spark is out. 
Then we'll he damn'd no doubt — Du- 
mourier. 

SWEETEST MAY. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee; 
Take a heart which he designs thee; 
As thy constant slave regard it; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 

Proof o' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthy, but the bonie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it ! 

ONE NIGHT AS I DID 
WANDER. 

Tune — " John Anderson wy Jo." 

One night as I did wander, 
When corn begins to shoot, 

I sat me down to ponder, 
Upon an auld tree root: 

Auld \\x ran by before me. 
And iiicker'd to the seas; 

A cushat croodeil o'er me 
'J'hat echocil thro' the braes. 



THE BELLES OF MA UCILLINE. 



243 



THE WINTER IT IS PAST. 



A FRAGMENT. 



The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last. 

And tlie small birds sing en every tree; 
Now everything is glad, while I am very sad, 

Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear. 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee; 

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest. 
But my true love is parted from me. 

FRAGMENT. 



Hei^ flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling. 
And round that neck entwine her ! 



Her lips are roses wet wi' dew ! 

O, what a feast her bonie mou ! 
Her cheeks a inair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner i 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

Tune — "Captain O'Kean." 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning. 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair. 
While the lingering moments are number'd by cafe? 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, 
A King or a Father to place on his throne? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys. 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can tind none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn : 

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return ? 

THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. 

Tune — " Bonnie Diiniiee.'^ 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles, 
The pritle of the place and its neighbourhood a', 

Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' : 

Miss Miller is fine. Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw : 

There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, 
But Arniour's the jewel for me o' them a'. 



244 



THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 



THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 



If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, 
Ye'U there see boiiie Peggy; 

She Uens her father is a laird, 
And she forsoDth's a leddy. 

There Sophy light, a lassie bright, 
Besides a handsome fortune : 

Wha eanna win her in a night, 
Has little art in courting. 

Gae down by Fade, and taste the ale. 

And tak a look o' Mysie: 
She's dour and ilin, a deil within. 

But aiblins she may please ye. 



If she he shy, her sister try, 

Ye'll maylie fancy Jenny, 
If ye'U dispense wi' want o' sense — 

She kens hersel she's bonie. 

As ye gae up by yon hill-side, 

Sjieer in for bonie Bessy; 
She'll gi'e ye a beck, and bid ye light, 

And handsomely addiess ye. 

There's few sae bonie, nane sae gude, 
III a' King George' dominion; 

If ye should doul)t the truth o' this — 
it's Bessy's ain opinion ! 



THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men. 
And jiroper young lasses and a', man ; 

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals, 
They carry the gree frae them a', man. 

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare't. 
Braid money to tocher them a', man. 

To pri)per young men, he'll clink in the hand 
Gowd guineas a hundcr or twa,^nan. 

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen 

As bonie a lass or as braw, man. 
But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best, 

And a conduct that beautities a', man. 

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine. 
The mair admiration they draw, man; 

While peaches an<l cherries, and roses and lilies, 
They fade and they wither awa, man. 

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien', 

A hint o' a rival or twa, man, 
The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire, 

If that wad entice her awa, man. 

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed. 
For mair than a towmond or twa, man, 

The I .aird o' the Ford will straught on a boerd, 
If he canna get her at a', mau. 

Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin, 

The boast of our bachelors a', man : 
Sae sonsy aiul sweet, sae fully complete. 

She steals our affections awa, man. 



HERE'S A HEAL 77/ TO THEM TIJA TS A \VA. 



245 



If I should detail the jiiok and the wale 

O' lasses that live here avva, man, 
The fault wad he mine, if they didna shine. 

The sweetest and hcsl o' them a', man. 

I lo'e her niysel, but darciui wee! tell, 

My poverty keeps mc in awe, man, 
For niakinfj o' rhymes, and working at times, 

Does little or nielhin^ at a', man. 

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse. 
Nor ha'e't in her power to say na, man, 

For tliouj^h I be poor. unni)ticed, obscure, 
My stomach's as proud as llicm a', man. 

Thou>;;h I caniia ride in weel-bootcd jiride. 
Ami llee o'er the hills like a craw, man, 

I can baud up my head wi' the best o' the breed, 
Though iluttering ever so braw, man. 

My coat and my vest, they arc Scotch o' the best, 
O' jiairs o' f:;uid ineeks I ha'e twa, man, 

And stockinijs and jiumps to put on my stumps, 
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man. 

My sarks they are few, but five o' them new, 
Twal' hundred, as white as tlie snaw, man, 

A ten-shiliinfj's hat, a Holland cravat; 
There are no nu)ny poets sae braw, man. 

I never had frien's, weel stockit in means. 
To leave me a hundred or twa, nian, 

Nae weel tochered aunts, to wait on their drants, 
And wish them in hell for it a', man. 

I never was canny for hoarding:; o' money. 

Or claughlin't toj;etiu-r at a', man, 
Fve little to s|)end, and naethinj^ to lend, 

But deevil a shilling 1 awe, man. 



HERE'S A HE.ALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA. 



Heue's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our 

cause. 
May never guid luck be their fa' ! 
It's guid tt) l)e merry and wise. 
It's guiil to be honest and true. 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause. 
And bide by the buff and the blue. 



Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to Charlie the chief of 

the clan, 
Allho' that his band be but snia*. 
May liberty meet wi' success! 
May prudence piotect her frae evil! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 
And wander their way to the devil 1 



246 



A/V LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. 



Here's a health to them that's avva, 
Here's a liealth to iheni that's awa; 
Here's a heahh to Tammie, the Norland 

lacUlic, 
That lives at the lug o' the law ! 
Here's freedom to him that wad read, 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
There's naue ever fear'd that the truth 

should be heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to liiem that's avva, 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain 

wortli gowd, 
The' bred among mountains o' snaw ! 



I'M OWRE YOUNG TO 
MARRY YET. 

I AM my raammie's ae bairn, 
Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; 

And lying in a man's bed, 

I'm fley'd wad mak me eerie. Sir. 

CHt)RUS. 

I'm owre young, I'm owre young, 
I'm owre young to marry yet; 

I'm owre young, 'twad be a sin 
To tak me fiae my mammie yet. 

My mammie coft nie a new gown. 
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't; 

Were I to lie v\i' you, kind Sir, 
I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
I'm owre young, &c. 

Hallowmas is come and gane, 

The nights aie lang in winter. Sir; 

And you an' 1 in ae bed. 

In troth I dare na venture, Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, Sir; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 



DAMON AND SYLVIA. 

Tune — " The tiiher morn, as I/orlor7i." 

Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 
And glances o'er the brae^ Sir : 

Slides by a bovver where monie a flower 
Sheds fragrance on the day. Sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay : 
To love they thought nae crime, Sir; 

The wikl birds sang, the echoes rang, 
While Damon's heart beat time, Sir. 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S 
GAIRS UPON'T. 

CHORliS. 

My lady's gown there's gairs upon't, 
And govvden flowers sae rare upon't; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. 
My lord thinks muckle niair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane. 
But hounds or hawks wi' liim are nane. 
By Colin's cottage lies his game, 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 
My lady's gown, &c. 

My lady's white, my lady's red. 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude. 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 
My lady's gown, &c. 

Out o'er yon niuir, out o'er yon moss, 
Wharegor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

My lady's gown, &c. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns: 
The diamond dew in her een sae -blue. 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims 
My lady's gown, &c. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest. 
The flower and fancy o' the west; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 
My lady's gown, &c. 



WHY THE DEUCE. 



247 



O AY MY WIFE SHE 
ME. 



DANG 



O ay my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife did bang me; 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 
Guid faith she'll soun o'ergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I marry'd; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarry'd. 

Some sa'r o' comfort still at last, 
When a' thir days are done, man, 

My pains o' hell on earth are past, 
I'm suie o' bliss aboon, man. 
O ay my wife, &c. 

THE BANKS OF NITH. 

A liAI.I.AD. 

To thee, lov'd Nilh, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I 
rang'd. 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe. 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear; 

For there he ruv'd that brake niy heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 



BONIE PEG. 

As I came in by our gate end. 

As day was waxin' weary, 
O wha came tripping down the street. 

But bonie Peg, my dearie ! 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting. 

The Queen of I.ove did never move 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands 

Adown yon winding river; 
And, oh ! that hour and broomy bower, 

Can 1 forget it ever ? 



O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, 
LASS. 



O lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass. 

And swear in thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A SLAVE to love's unbounded sway. 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae; 
But now he is my deadly fae. 
Unless thou be my ain. 
O lay thy loof, «.K;c. 

There's monie a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best; 
But thou art Queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 
O lay thy loof, &c. 

O GUID ALE COMES. 



guid ale comes, rnd guid ale goes, 
(juiil ale gars me sell my hose, 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh, 
i'hey drew a' weel eneugh, 
I sell'd iheni a' just ane by ane; 
Cjuid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

Guid ale hands me bare and busy. 
Gars nie moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keejis my heart aboon. 
O guid ale comes, &c. 

O WHY THE DEUCE. 

EXTEMl'OKIi. Al'KII,, 1782. 

WHY the deuce shcndd I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder? 

I'm twenty-lhree, and live feet nine — 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 

1 held it weel thegither; 

But now it's gane and something mair, 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



248 



THE FIVE CARUNS. 



POLLY S FEW ART. 

Tune — 'Ye' re ivclcome, Charlie Stewart." 
CllOUUS. 

O lovely Pdlly Stewnrt, 
O chariiiiiig Polly Stewart, 

Tliere's nc't-r a llower that blooms in 
May, 
That's half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it hlaws, it fades, it fa's, 
And art can ne'er renew it; 

But worth anil truth eternal youth 
Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whase arms shall faukl thy 
charms, 
Possess a leal and true licart; 
To him be f^ivcn to ken the heaven 
He j!;rasps in Polly Stewart. 
O lovely, &c. 

ROBIN SIIURK IN ILMRST. 



Robin shure in hairst, 

1 sure vvi' him, 
Fient a heuk liad 1, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I CAEi) up to Dunse, 

To warji a wab o' plaiden, 

At his (laddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin. 

Was na Robin bauld, 

'l"ho' 1 was a colter, 
Play'd me sick a trick 

And me the eller's dochter? 

Robin pri)iui>'d me 

A' my winter vittlc; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robin shure, &c. 

THE FIVE CARLINS. 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. I789. 

Tune — " Chevy Chase." 
Thkrk were five Carlins in the south, 

They fell ujion a scheme. 
To send a latl to Lon'on town 

To bring us tidings hame. 



Not only bring us tidings hame. 

Put do our errands there. 
And ail)liiis gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o' 
Nith, 

A dame \vi' pride eneugh; 
And Majorie o' the moiiie Lochs, 

A C'arlin old an' teugh. 

Antl blinkin Bess o' Annandale, 
Tliat dwells near SoKvny side, 

Ami wiiiskey Jean that took her gill 
In Galloway so wide. 

An' auld black Joan frae Creighton 
peel, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin. 
Five wighter Carlins were na foun' 

The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town 

They met upon a day, 
And monie a Knight and monie a 
Laird, 

That errand fain would gae. 

O! monie a Knight and monie a Laird. 

This errand fain would gae; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

O ! ne'er a ane but twae. 

The fust ane was a belted Knight, 

Bred o' a border clan. 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town. 

Might nae man him withstan': 

And he wad do their errands weel 

,\ui\ meikle he wad say. 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Wad bid to him guid day. 

Then nei>t came in a sodger youth"- 
And sjiak w i' modest grace, 

An' he wad gae to Lon'on town. 
If sae their ]>leasure was. 

He wad na hecht them courtly gift. 
Nor meikle s]>eech pretend; 

But he would hecht an honest heart 
Wad ne'er desert his friend. 



THE LASS TITA T MADE THE BED TO ME. 



249 



Now wham to choose and wham refuse, 

To strife ihae Cnilii)s fell; 
For some had gentle fulU to please, 

And some wad please themsel. 

Then out s])ak niim-niou'd Mcgo'Nith, 

An' she spak out wi' pride, 
An' she wad send the sodger youth 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidman o' Lon'on court 

She didna care a jiin, 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale : 

A deadly aith she's ta'en. 
That she wad vote the border Knight, 

Tho' she should vote her lane. 

P'or far aff fowls hae feathers fair. 
An' fools o' change are fain: 

But I hae tiied the lx)rder Knight, 
I'll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton 
l>cel, 

A Carlin stoor and grim, 
The auUl guidman or young guidman, 

For me may sink or swim ! 

For fools may freit o' right and wrang, 
While knaves laugh them to scorn : 

But U>e sodgers' friends hae bkiwn the 
liest, 
Sae he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink, 

\'e Wful ken kimmers a' 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's i)een at the wa'. 

And monie a friend that kiss'dhis caup, 

Is now a frammit wight; 
But it's ne'er sae wi' whisky Jean, — 

We'll send the border Knight. 

Then slow raise Marjorie o' the Lochs, 
And wrinkled was her brow; 

Her ancient weed was russet gray. 
Her auld Scots bluid was true. 



There's some great folks set light by me, 

1 set as light by them; 
But I will send to Lon'on town, 

Wha 1 lo'e best at hame. 

.'^o how this weighty plea will end 

Nae mortal wight can tell; 
Ciod grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to iiimsel'! 

THE DEUK'S D.ANG O'ER 
MY DAHDIE. 

Till': bairns gat out wi' an unco shout. 

The deuk's dang o'er my daddie, O ! 
The licnt ma care, quo' the feirie auld 
wife, 

lie was but a paidlin body, O ! 
lie paidles out, and he paidles in, 

An' he ])aidles late and early, O; 
This seven lang years 1 hae lien by his 
side, 

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, (). 

hand your tongue, my feirie auld 

wife, 

hand your tongue now, Nansie, O 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye. 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, O; 
I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose 

And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O;' 
But downa do's come o'er me now. 

And, oh, 1 lind it sairly, O ! 

THE LASS TH.AT MADE THK 
BED TO ME. 

When Januar' wind was blawing cau*l 

As to the north I tool.; my way, 
The mirkscjme night di<l me enfauld, 

1 knew na where to loilge till day. 

By my good luck a maid I met, 
Just in the middle o' my care: 

And kindly she did me invite 
To walk into a chamber fair. 

1 bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 

And thank'd her for her courtesie; 
I bow'd fu' low unto this ma'd, 
And bade her mak a bed to nie. 



250 



THERE WAS A BON IE LASS. 



She mnde the bed baith large and wide, 
Wi' twa white hands slie spread it 
down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy Ups, 

And (hank, " \ inuij; man, now sleep 
ye soun." 

She snateh'd the eaiulle in her hand, 
And frae my chaniljec went wi' speed; 

But 1 eall'd her (piieldy bach again 
To lay some niair below my head. 

A cod she laid below my head, 
And served me wi' due respect; 

And to salute her wi' a kiss, 
1 put my arms about her neck. 

" Haud aif your hands, young man," 
she says, 

" And dinna sae uncivil be: 
If ye hae onie love for me, 

O wrang ua my virginitie ! " 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 
Her teeth were like the ivorie; 

Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
'I'wa drifleil heaps sae fair to see; 

Her limbs the polisli'd marble staiie. 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again. 
And aye she wist na what to say; 

I laid her between me and the wa', — 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Ujion the morrow when we rose, 
1 thank'd her for her courtesie; 

But aye she blush'd, and .aye she sigh'd, 
And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 

I elasji'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 
While the tear stood twinkling in her 
ee ; 

1 said, "My lassie, tlinna cry, 

For ye ay shall make the bed to nie." 

She took her mither's Holland sheets. 
And made them a' in sarks to me : 

Blythe and merry may she be. 
The lass that made the bed to mc. 



The bonie lass made the bed to me, 
The bravv Lass made the bed to me : 

Til ne'er forget till the day 1 die. 
The lass that made the bed to nie 1 

TIII<: UNION. 

TuNK — " Such a Jxtncl 0/ rogin-s in a 
natioii." 
Farkwicki. to a' our Scottish fame, 

Faievveel our ancient glory ! 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae fam'd in martial story ! 
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands. 

And Tweed rin;. to the ocean. 
To mark where Knglaml's province 
stands; 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 

What guile or force could not subilue, 

Ihrough many warlike ages. 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

l'"or hireling traitors' wages. 
The iMiglish steel we could di^tlain. 

Secure in valour's station, 
But hjiglish gold has been our bane; 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

O would, ox had I seen the day 

That treason thus could sell us. 
My auld grey head had lien in clav, 

Wi' I'.ruce and loyal Wallace! 
lUit pith and |)owi'r, till my last hour 

I'll niak IJiis declaration. 
We're bought and sold for I'aiglish gold : 

Such a i)arcel of rogues in a nation ! 

THERK WAS A BONIE LASS. 

TllKKK was a bonie lass, and a bonie, 
iK)nie lass. 
And she lo'ed her bonie laddie dear; 
Till war's loud alarms tore her laddie 
frae her arms, 
Wi' monie a sigh and tear. 

Over sea, over shore, where the cannons 
loudly roar. 
He still was a stranger to fear: 
.'\nd nocht could him ([uell, or his 
bosom assail. 
But the bonie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



CRAIGIE-BURN- WOOD. 



251 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLAN T 
CiAY. 

TiiNE — " Highlander's lament." 
My Harry was a j^allant gay, 

I'll' slati'ly strade lie on the plain! 
But now lie's hanisli'd far away, 

I'll never see liiiii i)aeU again. 



When a' the lave gae to their 
bed, 
I wander dowie up the glen; 
I sit nie tlovvii and jjreet my lill, 
And ay I wish him back again. 
C) for him, c^:c. 



O wore some villains hangit high, 
And ilka l)0(ly had their ain, 

Tlieii I niiglit see the joyfu' sight, 
My UigliLuid Harry Ijack again 1 
O for him, &c. 



C.'HDKUS. 

for him hack again, 
O for him back again, 

1 wad gie a' Kiiockliaspie's land. 
For lligliland Harry back again. 

TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Tune — " Johnny M'Gill." 

wn.T thou go wi' me, sweet 'ribl)ie nunbar? 
C) wilt Ihou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk by my side, () sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

1 care na tliy daddie, liis lands antl his money, 
I care na thy kin, sae high and sue lordly : 
Hut say thou wilt hae me for belter for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. 

WIOIC WILLU:. 

Wkf. Willie ('ray, and his leather waller; 

Peel a willow-wand, to be him boots and jacket: 

The rose u])on the briar will l)e him trouse and doublet, 

The rose upon the briar will be him Irouse and doublet! 

Wee Willie Cray, and his leather wallet; 



Twice a lily llo'.ver wil 
Feathers of a flee wad 
l'"eathers v)f a llee wail 

CRAIGII<:-15URN-\V0()1). 

ClIOKUS. 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, 
dearie. 

And () to lie lying beyond thee, 
O sweetly, soundly, « eel may he sleep, 

That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 

SwKiC'i' closes the evening on Craigie- 
burn-wixxl. 
And blythely awakens the morrow; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie- 
burn-wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, &c. 



be him sark and cravat; 
feather up his bonnet, 
feather up his bonnet. 

I see the sprea<ling leaves and flowers, 
1 hear the wild liirds singing; 

lUit pleasure they hae nane for me. 
While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, &c. 

I canna tell, I maun na tell, 

I dare na for your anger; 
But secret love will break my lieart 

If I ctjMceal it langer. 

Beyontl thee, &c. 

I see thee gracefii', straight and tall, 
I see thee sweet and bonie, 

But oh, what will my torments be, 
If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 
Beyond thee, &c. 



252 



JS I WAS A WANDERING. 



To see thee in anither's arms, 
In love to lie and languish, 

'Twad he my dead, that will he seen, 

My heart wad l)urst \vi' anguish. 

Ijeyond thee, &c. 



But, Jeanie, say thou wilt he mine, 
Say, thou lu'es nane hefore me; 

An' a' my days o' life to come, 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 
Beyond thee, &c. 



HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN 
WATER ! 

Tune — " The Job of journey-tvork." 

Altho' my hack he at the wa'. 

And tho' he be the fautor; 
Altho' my back he at the wa', 

Yet, here's his health in water! 
O ! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawlie he could Hatter; 
Till fur his sake I'm slighted sair, 

And dree the kintra clatter. 
But tho' my back be at the wa'. 

And tho' he be the fautor; 
But tho' my back be at the wa'. 

Yet, here's his health in water ! 



AS DOWN THE BURN T\\¥N 
TOOK THEIR WAY. 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro' the flowery dale; 
His cheeks to hers he aft did lay, 

Anil love was ay the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ? " 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I Hue the burn. 

And ay shall follow you." 



LADY ONLIE. 

Tune — " Ruffian'' s rant." 

A' the lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Buck, 
They'll step in an' tak' a pint 
Wi' L.ady Onlie, luMiest Lucky! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews gude ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale fur her gude ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 

Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean 

I wat she is a dainty cluicky; 
And cliecrlie blinks the ingle-gleed 
Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews gude ale at shore o' Bucky; 
I wish her sale for her gude ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



AS I WAS A WANDERING. 



TUNE- 



' Rtnn meudial mo mhealladh. 



As I was a wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin'. 

The pijiers and youngsters were making their game. 

Amang them I s]>ied my faithless fause lover. 
Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. 

Weel, since he has left me, may jileasure gae wi' him; 

I may be distrcss'd, but I winna complain; 
I Hatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 

I could na get slee]iing till dawin' fur greelin', 

The tears trickled tlown like the hail and the rain; 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken. 
For, oh ! love forsakea's a tormenting pain. 



COME BOA T ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. 



253 



Altho' he has left me for greed o' the siller, 
I diiiiia envy hiui the qains he can win; 

I rathei- wad hear a' the lade o' my sorrow 
Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 

Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him, 
1 may be dislressM, but I winna complain; 

I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



BANNOCKS O' BARLEY. 

Tune — " The Killogie." 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' Barley; 
Here's to the Highlandman's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will hrst cry a parley? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' Barley; 
Here's t*) the ladi wi' 

The bannocks o' barley; 
Wha in his wae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 

OUR THRISSLES FLOUR- 
ISHED FRESH AND ¥MR. 

, Tune — " Aiua lVhig;s, azua." 
CHORUS. 

Awa Whig'^, awa ! 

Awa Whigs, awa! 
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, 

Yc'll iXo iiae good at a'. 

OuK thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, 

And bonie bloom'd our roses; 
But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
And wither'd a' our posies. 

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust — 
Dcil blin' them wi' the stourc o't; 

And write their names in his black 
l)euk, 
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 



Our sad decay in Churrh and State 

Surpasses my descriving; 
The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, 

And we hae done with thriving. 

Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, 
]3ut we may see him wauken; 

Gude help the day when royal heads 
Are hunted like a maukin. 

Awa Whigs, awa ! 

Awa Whigs, awa ! 
Ye're but a ]iack o' traitor louns, 

Ye'U do nae gude at a'. 

PEG-A-RAMSEY. 

Tune — "Cauld t's the e'entn' blast." 

CAUi.n is the e'enin' blast 

O' Boreas o'er the pool. 
And dawin' it is dreary 

When birks are bare at Yule. 

O bitter blaws the e'enin' blast 
When bitter bites the frost. 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost. 

Ne'er sae murky blew the night 
That drificd o'er the hill, 

But b(;iiie Peg-a- Ramsey 
Gat grist to her mill. 

COME BOAT ME O'ER TO 
CHARLIE. 

Tune — " O'er the water to Charlie." 

CoiMK boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 
Come boat me o'er to Charlie; 

I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, 
To boat me o'er to Charlie. 



254 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. 



We'll o'er the water and o'er the 
sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather 
and go. 
And live or die wi' Charlie. 

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 
Tho' some there be abhor him : 

But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, 
And Charlie's faes before him ! 

I swear and vow by moon and stars, 

And sun that shines so early, 
If I had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the 
sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather 

and go. 
And live or die with Charlie ! 



BRAVV LADS OF GALLA 
WATER. 

Tune — " Galla Water." 
CHORUS. 
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; 

O liraw lads of Galla water ! 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
And follow my love through the 
water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonie blue her een, my dearie; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou'. 
The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. 

O'er yon bank and o'er yon lirae. 
O'er yon moss amang the heather; 

I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 

And follow my love through the water. 

Down amang the broom, the broom, 

Down amang the bioom, my dearie, 
The lassie lost a silken snood. 

That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. 
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; 

O braw lads of Galla Water: 
I'll kilt mv coats aboon my knee, 
And follow my love through the 
water. 



COMING THROUGH THE 
RYE. 

Tune — " Cpming through the rye." 

Coming through the rye, poor 
body. 

Coming through the rye, 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie. 

Coming through the rye. 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body — 
Coming through the rye; 

Gin a body kiss a body — 
Need a body cry? 

Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the glen. 
Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need the world ken? 
Jeimy's a' \^'at, poor body; 

Jenny's seldom dry; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 



THE LAS3 OF ECCLEFE- 
CHAN. 

Tune — " Jacky Latin." 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me, 

O gat ye me wi' naething? 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye, my bonie sel'. 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 

baud your tongue now, Luckie J^aing. 

baud your tongue and jauner; 

1 held the gate till you I met,- 

Syne I began to wander : 
I tint my whistle and my sang, 

1 tint my peace and pleasure; 

But your green grafl', now, Luckie 
Laing, 
Wad airt me to my treasure. 



HER DADDIE FORBAD. 



255 



THE SLAVE'S LAMENT. 

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, 

For the lands of Virginia, O; 
Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more, 

And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow or frost, 

Like the lands of Virginia, O; 
There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, 

And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, 

In the lands of Virginia, O; 
And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear. 

And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 



HAD I THE WYTE. 

Tune — " Had I the wyie she bade me." 
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte. 

Had I the wyte she bade me; 
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, 

And up the loan she shaw'd me; 
And when I wadna venture in, 

A coward loon she ca'd me; 
Had kirk and state been in the gate, 

I lighted when she bade me. 
Sae craftilie she took me l^en. 

And bade me make nae clatter; 
" For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman 

Is out and ower the water : " 
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace. 

When I did kiss and dawte her, 
Let him be planted in my place, 

Syne say I was the fautor. 
Could I for shame, could I for shame. 

Could I for shame refused her? 
And wadna manhood been to blame. 

Had I unkindly used her? 
He clawed her vvi' the ripplin-kame, 

And blue and bluidy bruised her; 
When sic a husband was frae hame. 

What wife but had excused her? 

I (lighted ay her een sae blue. 

And bann'd the cruel randy; 
And weel I wat her willing mou' 

Was e'en like sugar-candy. 
A gloamin-shot it was I trow, 

I lighted on the Monday; 
But I cam through the Tysday's dew. 

To wanton Willie's brandy. 



HEE BALOU. 

Tune — " The Highland baloic" 
Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 
I'icture o' the great Cianronald; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 
Leeze me on thy bonie craigie. 
An' thou live, thou'li steal a naigie : 
Travel the country thro' and thro'. 
And bring hame a Carlisle cow. 
Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, 
Weel, my babie, may thou furder : 
Herry the louns o' the laigh countree, 
Syne to the Highlands hame to me. 

HER DADDIE FORBAD. 

Tune — " yumpin John." 
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad; 

Forbidden she wadna be : 
She wadna trow't, the browst she brew'd 
Wad taste sae bitterlie. 

The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonie lassie. 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonie lassie. 
A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf. 

And thretty gude shillin's and three; 
A very good tocher, a cotter-man's 
dochter. 
The lass with the bonie black ee. 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonie lassie. 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonie lassie. 



256 



THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, 
MY BON IE LASS. 

Tune — "Laggan Burn.'" 
IIf.re's to thy health, my bonie lass, 

(lude night, and joy be wi' thee; 
I'll come nae mair to thy bower door, 

To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink, 
That I can live without thee : 

1 vow and swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye. 

Thou'rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

I'rae wedlock to delay thee; 
Depending on some higher chance — 

But fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate, 

But that does never grieve me; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae lang as I'll enjoy it: 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far aff fowls hae feathers fair, 

And ay until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem f;iir, still have a care. 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon 
shines bright. 

My dear, I'll come and see thee; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel 

Nae travel makes him weary. 

HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 

Tl'NE — " Tlie Dusty Miller.'^ 

IIev, the dusty miller. 
And his dusty coat; 
He will win a shilling. 
Or he spend a groat. 
Dusty was tiie coat, 

Dusty was the colour, 
Dusty was the kiss 

That I got frae the miller. 



Hey, the dusty miller. 
And his dusty sack; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck. 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Ikings the dusty siller; 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 

THE CARDIN' O'T. 

Tune — " Salt Fish and Dumplings." 

I COFT a stane o' haslock woo'. 

To make a coat to Johnny o't; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't; 

The warpin' o't, the winnm' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin' o't. 

For though his locks be lyart gray, 

And though his brow be held aboon; 
Yet I hae seen him on a day. 
The pride of a' the parishen. 
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't. 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin' o't. 

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 

Tune — " Maggie Lauder." 

I MARKiicn with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November; 
She made me «eary of my life. 

By one unruly member. 
I-ong did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one-and-twenty years 

A man and wife together; 
At length from me her course she steer'd; 

And gone I know not whither: 
WouUl I could guess, I do j-irofess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE FACE. 



257 



Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does liidc her; 
Ikit sure her soul is not in liell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her. 
I rather think siie is aloft, 

And imitaliiig tliumler; 
For why, — niethinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



THENIEL MENZIE'S BONIE 
MARY. 

Tune — " The Ruffian's rant." 

In coniinij by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry; 
As day was davvin in the sky 

We drank a health to bonie Mary. 
Tlienicl Menzie's bonie Mary, 

Tiieniel Menzie's bonie Mary; 
Charlie (iregor lint his plaidie, 
Kissin' 1 iieniel's bonie Mary. 

Her ecn sae bright, her brow sae white, 

lier hallet locks as i)rown"s a berry, 
An' ay ihey din^pled wi' a smile 
The rosy cheeks o' bonie Mary. 
Tiieniel Men/.ie's bonie Mary, 

'I'licniel Menzie's bonie Mary; 
Charlie ('.regor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Tlieniel's bonie Mary. 

Wc lap an' danced the lee-lang day, 
TilJ piper lads were wne an' weary. 
But Charlii' gat the spring Ic. pay 
I'or Kissin' rheniel's bonie Mary. 
Theniil Menzie's bonie Mary, 

'J'lieniel Menzie's Iwnie Mary; 
Charlie (iregor tint his plaidie, 
Ivissin' Theniel's bonie Mary. 



in IE FAREWELL. 

Ti Ni? — " It was a' for our rightfu King' 

I r was a' for our right fu' King, 
We left fair Scotlnnil's strand; 

It uas a' for our rightfu' King 
We e'er saw Irish land. 

My dear; 
We e'er saw Irish land. 



Now a' is done that men can do, 

And a' is tlune in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell, 

For I maun cross the main. 
My dear; 

For I maun cross the main. 

He turn'd him right and round about 

Upon the Irish shore; 
And gae his iiridle-rcins a shake, 

With adieu for e\crnu)re. 
My dear; 

With adieu for evermore. 

The sodgcr from the \\'ars returns, 

The sailor frae the main; 
But I hae jiarted frae my love, 

Never to meet again, 

My dear; 

Never to meet again. 

When day is gane, and night is come. 
And a' folk bound to sleep; 

I think on him that's far awa*, 
The lee-lang night, and weep, 

My dear; 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE 

fac:e. 

Tune — " The Maid's Complaint." 

It is na, Jean, thy bonie face, 

Nor shape that I admire. 
Although thy beauty and thy grace 

Migiit weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee. 

To jnaise, Xo love, I (ind; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae niair ungen'rous wish 1 hae, 

Nor stronger in my breast. 
Than if I canna niak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee: 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live. 

For thee Fd bear to die. 



258 



MY HEART WAS ANCE. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 

Tune — " Jamie, come try me." 
CHORUS. 
Jamie, CDiiie try me, 
J.imie, come try me; 
If thou would win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should ask my love, 

Could I deny thee? 
If thou would win ray love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should kiss me, love, 

Wha could espy thee? 
If thou wad be my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

Jamie, come try me, &c. 

LANDLADY, COUNT THE 
LAW IN. 

Tune — " Hey tulti, taiti." 

Landlady, count (he lawin. 
The day is near the davvin; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 
And I'm but jolly fou. 

Hey tutti, taiti. 

How tutti, taiti — 

Wha's fou now? 

Cog an' ye were ay fou, 
Cog an' ye were ay fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you 
If ye were ay fou. 

Weel may ye a' be ! 
Ill may we never see ! 
God bless the King, boys. 
And the companie ! 

Iley tutti, taiti, 

How tutti, taiti — 

Wha's fou now? 

MY LOVE SHE'S RUT A 
LASSIE YET. 

Tune — " Lady Badinscoth's reel." 

My love she's but a lassie yet; 

My love she's Init a lassie yet; 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 



I rue the day I sought her, O, 
I rue the day I sought her, 0; 

Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd, 
But he may say he's bought her, O ! 



Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. 

But here 1 never miss'd it )el. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't, 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 

An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 



MY HEART WAS ANCE. 

Tune — " To the lueavers gin ye go." 

My heart was ance as blythe and free 

As simmer days were lang. 
But a bonie, westlin weaver lad 
Has gart me change my sang. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair 
maids. 
To the weavers gin ye go; 
I rede you right gang ne'er at 
night. 
To the weavers gin ye go. 

My mither sent nie to the town. 

To warp a jilaiden wab; 
But the weary, weary wavpin o't 

Has gart me sigh and sab. 

A bonie westlin weaver lad 

Sat working at his loom; 
He took my heart as wi' a net, 

In every knot and thrum. 

I sat beside my warpin-wheel. 

And ay I ca'd it roun'; 
But every shot and every knock, 

My heart it gae a stoun. 

The moon was sinking in the west 

Wi' visage pale and wan, 
As my bonie westlin weaver lad 

Convoy'd me through the glen. 



THE CAPTAIN'S LAD Y. 



259 



But what was said, or what was done, 

Shame fa' me gin I tell; 
But oh ! I fear the kinlra soon 

Will ken as weel's mysel. 

To tlie weavers gin ye go, fair maids 
To the weavers gin ye go; 

I rede you right gang ne'er at niglit, 
To the weavers gin ye go. 



LOVELY DAVIES. 

Tune — " Miss Muir." 

HOW shall I, unskilfu', try 
The poet's occupation, 

The tuiiefu' powers, in happy hours, 

That whisper inspiration? 
Even they maun dare an effort mair. 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Or they rehearse, in equal verse. 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears, 

Like Phoebus in the morning, 
When past the shower, and ev'ry flouer 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore. 

When winter-bound the wave is; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 

Her 'smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift. 

That maks us mair than princes; 
A scepter'd hand, a King's command. 

Is in her darting glances: 
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms, 

Even he her willing slave is; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 

My Muse to dream of such a theme, 
Iler feeble powers surrender; 

The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
The sun's meridian splendour : 

1 wad in vain essay the strain, 
The deed too daring brave is; 

I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
'l"hc charms o' lovely Davies. 



KENMURE'S ON AND AWA. 

Tune — " O Kenmzire's on and avja, Willie" 
O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie ! 

O Kemnure's on and awa ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie! 

Success to Kenmure's band; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's 

Nor yet o' Gordon's line. [blade, 

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

O Kenmure's lads are men; 
Their hearts and swords are metaltrue — 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame; 
But Soon, wi' sounding victorie. 

May Kenmure's lord come hame- 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa; 
And here's the flower that I love best — 

The rose that's like the snaw ! 

THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 

Tune — " O tnoutit and go y 
CHORUS. 

O mount and go. 

Mount and make you ready; 
O mount and go. 

And be the Captain's Lady. 

When the drums do beat, 

And the cannons rattle, 
Thou shalt sit in state. 

And see thy love in battle. 

When the vanquish'd foe 

Sues for peace and quiet, 
To the shades we'll go. 

And in love enjoy it. 

O mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready; 
O mount and go. 

And be the Captain's Lady. 



26o 



MERRY HAE I BEEN, TEE THIN' A HECKLE. 



LADY MARY ANN. 

Tune — " Cragtown's Rowing." 
O, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three honie boys 

Phxying at the ba'; 
The youngest he was 

The (lower amang them a'; 
My bonie laddie's young, 

But lie's growin' yet. 
O father ! O father ! 

An' ye think it ht, 
We'll send him a year 

To the college yet : 
We'll sew a green rilibon 

Round ahcuit his hat, 
And that will let theni ken 

He's to marry yet. 

Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, 

Bonie was its hue ! 
And the langer it blossom'd 

The sweeter it giew; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonier yet. 
Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik; 
Bonie and bloomin' 

And slraught was its make: 
The su!i took delight 

To shine for its sake. 
And it will be the brag 

O' the forest yet. 
The simmer is gane 

When tlie leaves they were green, 
And the days are awa 

Tliat we hae seen : 
But far better days 

I trust will come again, 
For my bonie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S 
LAMENT. 

On ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-i)n, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse. 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was nae sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on, ocli-on, och-iie ! 
Nae woman in the country wide 

Sae happy was as me. 

For then I had a score o' kye, 

Ocli-on, och-on, och-rie! 
Feeding on yon hills so high, 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonie knowes, 

And casting woo' to me. 

I was the haiijiiest of (he clan, 

.Sair, sair may I reiiine; 
I'^or Donald was the brawest lad, 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free; 
My Donald's arm was wanted then. 

For Scotland and for me. 

Their Ma«>fa' fate what need 1 tell. 
Right to the wraug did yield : 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upon Culloden's lield. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide, 

Sae wretched now as me. 



MERRY HAE I BEEN TEE THIN' A HECKLE. 

Tl'Nk — " Lord Breadalbane's March." 

O MKKRY hae T been teethin' a heckle, 
And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; 

O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle. 
And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. 



O M ALLY'S MEEIC, MALLY'S SWEET. 

O a' tlie lang day I ca' at my hammer, 
An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, 

A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, 
An' a' the lang night as happy's a King. 

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, 

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : 
Bless'd be the hour she cool'd in her linnens, 

And blythe be the bird that sings on her gruve. 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

An' come to my arms, and kiss me again ! 
Drunken or soVjer, here's to thee, Katie ! 

And l)less'd be the day I did it again. 



261 



RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE. 

Tune — ^' Raitlin, roarin Willie.'" 

O RArn.iN', roarin' Willie, 

O, he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his ruklle, 

An' liuy some other ware; 
But parting \vi' his tiddle. 

The saut tear blin't his ee; 
And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 
O sell your liddle sae fine; 



() Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine ! 
If I shoulrl sell my fiddle, 

The warl' would think I was mad; 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I hae had. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannily keekit ben — 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was silting at yon board en'. 
Sitting at yon board en', 

And amang guid companie; 
Rattlin', roarin' W^illie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 



O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. 

O Malay's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally"s modest and tliscreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 
As I was walking up the street, 

A harefit inaid I chanced to meet; 
But O the road was very hard 

For that fair maiden's tender feet. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel laced up in silken shoon, 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within you chariot gilt aljoon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 

Comes triidcling down her swan-white neck, 
And her two eyes, like stars in skies. 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 



262 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 



SAE FAR A\VA. 

Ti'NK — " Dalkeith Maiden Bridg-e." 

O SAD and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart 

My native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this Fair sae far awa, 
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart. 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 



O STEER HER UP. 

Tune — " O steer her !if>, mid hand her gatitt. 

O .STEKR her up, antl haud her gaun — 

Her mother's at the mill, jo; 
And gin she winna take a man, 

E'en let her take her will, jo : 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, jo, 
And gin she take the thing amiss, 

E'en let her tlyte her iiil, jo. 

O steer her up, and be na blate, 

An' gin she tak it ill, jo. 
Then lea'e the lassie till lier fate. 

And time nae langer spill, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, 

But think upon it still, jo; 
Then gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'U tin' anither will, jo. 



O, WHAR DID YE GET. 

TUiN'E — " Bonie Dundee" 
O, WHAR did ye get that hauvcr meal bannock? 

O silly blind body, O dinna ye see? 
I gat it frae a brisk young sodger latidie. 

Between Saint Jt)hnston and bonie Dundee. 
O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudled me on his knee; 
May Heaven jn'otect my bonie Scotch laddie. 

And send him safe hame to his babie and me ! 

My blessin's u]ion thy sweet wee lippie. 

My blessin's u]5on thy bonie e'e brie ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 

Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me ! 
But ril big a bower on yt)n bonie banks, 

Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear; 
And ril deed thee in the tartan sae line. 

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. 

THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 

Tune — " Killiccrankic."' 



O wi{A will to Saint Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man? 
O wha will to .Snint Slejihen's house, 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man? 
Or will we send a man-o'-law? 

Or will we send a sotlger? 
Or him 'vha led o'er .Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major? 



Come, will ye court a noble lo'rd. 

Or buv a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth and honour pawn their word. 

Their vote shall be Olencairtl's, man? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Anil'ier gies them clatter; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste. 

He gies a Fete Champetre. 



SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 



263 



When Love and Beauty heard the news, 

The gay green-woods amang, man; 
Wliere gathering flowers and busking 
bovvers, 

They heard the blackbird's sang, 
man ; 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss 

Sir I'ohtics to fetter. 
As their's alone, the patent-bhss, 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth, ongleesome wing. 

O'er hill and dale she flew, man; 
Ilk winipling burn, ilk crystal spring, 

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man: 
She sunmion'd every social sprite, 

That sports by wood or water, 
On th' bonie banks of Ayr to meet, 

And keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew. 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clanib up the starry sky, man : 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams. 

Or down the current shatter; 
The western breeze steals through the 
trees, 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae gaily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man ! 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

A§ moves the mazy dance, man ! 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
When angels met, at Adam's yett, 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 



When Politics came there, to mix 

And make his ether-stane, man ! 
He circled round the magic ground. 

But entrance found he nane, man: 
lie blush'd for shame, he quat his name, 

Forswore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete ChampStre. 



SIMMER'S A PLEASANT 
TIME. 

Tune — ^' Ay luaukin, O." 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of ev'ry colour : 
The water rins o'er tlie heugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 
Ay vvaukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

Y/hen I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie; 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleeping; 
I think on my bonie lad 

And I bleer my een with greetin'. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie; 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 



THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW. 



TuNE- 



To daunton mc' 



The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, 
The simmer lilies Ijloom in snaw, 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 



To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



264 



THE COOPER O- CUDDIE. 



For a' his meal and a' his maut, 
For a' iiis fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold anil white nionie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may Iniy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes; 
Eut me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, 
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 
And the rain rains down frae his red l)leer'd ee- 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause lieart and flatt'ring tongue, 
'I'hat IS the thing you ne'er shall see; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDn'.. 

Tune — " If Ihou'lt play mr fair play." 

The ])oniest lad that e'er I saw, 

lionie laddie. Highland lafldie, 
Wore a plaid and was fu' bravv, 

]V)nie I lighland laddie 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Boiiie huUIie, Iligliianii laddie, 
His royal heart was tirm ami true, 

lionie Highland laddie. 

Trumpets sound and cannons roar, 

Bonie lassie, Lavvland lassie. 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonie Lawland lassie, 
(jlory, Honour, now invite, 

l)onic lassie, Lawlaml Lassie, 
For Freedom and my King to fight, 

Bonie Lawland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie. 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake; 

Bonie Highland laddie. 
Cio, for yoursel procure renown, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie. 
And for your law ful King his crown, 

Bonie Highland laddie ! 



THE COOPER O' CUDDIE. 

Tune — " Bab at ike l>02vsier." 



TlIK 



o' Cuddie cam here 



cooper 
avva. 
And ca'd the girrs out owre us a' — 
And our gude-wife has gotten a ca' 

That anger'd the silly gude-man, O. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door; 
Behind llie door, behind the door; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door. 
And cover him under a mawn, C). 



He sought them out, he sought them in, 
Wi', Deil hae her! and, Deil hae 

him ! 
But the body was sae doited and blin', 
He wist na where he was gaun, O, 

They coo|->er'd at e'en, they cooper'd at 

morn. 
Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn; 
On ilka brow she's iilanted a horn, 

And su'ears that they shall stan', O. 
We'll hide the coo]ier behind the door, 
Behind ihe door, behind the door; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, O. 



THE TlTIir.R MORN. 



265 



NITHDALE'S WELCOME HAME. 



TllK noble Maxwells niid their powers 

Are coming o'er the borelcr, 
Ami they'll }^ae l)i.tjt; Terreagle's towers, 

An' set them a' in oriler, 
Ami they declaie 'Terreagle's fair, 

I'or their ahtxie they ehoose it; 
There's no a lieart in a' the laiul, 

Hut's li>?hter at the news u't. 



Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 

And angry tempests gather; 
The hap]iy hour may soon he near 

That brings us jileasant weather: 
The weary night o' care antl grief 

May hae a joyful morrow; 
So dawning day has bidught relief- 

Fareweei our ni>;ht o' sorrow ! 



THE TAILOR. 

Tune—" The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thiiiiHes nn a . " 

TllK Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a', 

Tlie Tailor fell Ihro' the bed, thimbles an' a'; 

The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma', 

The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'. 

The sleepy bit lassie, she dreatled nae ill, 
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill ; 
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still, 
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill. 

Cie me the groat again, canny young man; 
Clie me the groat again, canny young man; 
The day it is short, and the night it is lang, 
The dearest siller that ever I wan ! 

There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; 
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; 
There's some that are dowie, I trovv wad be ix\\\ 
To see the bit tailor come skippin' again. 

THE Tri'HER MORN. 



TiiF. tither morn. 

When I forlorn, 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, 

I'd see my Jo, 
Beside ine, gain the gloaming. 

r>ut lie sae trig, 

Lap o'er the rig, 
And dawtingly did cheer me, 

When 1, what reck, 

L)i(l least exjjec'. 
To see my lad so near me. 

His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, [me ; 

Cock'd sprush v\hen first he clasp'd 

And 1, I wat, 

Wi' fainness grat, 
While in his grips he press'd me. 



Deil tak' the war ! 

1 late and air, 
llae wish since Jock departed; 

But now as glad 

I'm wi' my lad, 
As short syne broken-hearted. 

Fu' aft at e'en 

Wi' tlancing keen. 
When a' were blythe and merry, 

1 car'il na by, 

Sae sad was I 
In absence o' my dearie. 

But, ])raise he blest, 

My minil's at rest, 
I'm happy wi' my Johnny: 

At kirk and fair, 

I'se ay be there. 
And be as canty's ony. 



266 THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

Tune — " Kellybum braes." 

TilKRK lived a carle on Kellyburn braes 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

And he had a wife was the plague o' his days; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

lie met wi' the I)evil; says, " How Ao you ten?" 
And the tliynie it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

"I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint" 
(Hey, and tlie rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

*' For, saving your |iresenco, to her ye're a saint; " 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

" It's neither your stot nor your slaig I shall crave 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 
. "But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have; " 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

" O welcome, most kindly," the blytlie carle said 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

"But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd; " 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

The Devil has got the auld wife on his back 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme). 

And, like a jioor ])cdlar, he's carried his pack; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

Syne bad her gae in, for a b — h and a w — e; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in jirime. 

Then straight he makes lifty the pick o' his band 
(Hey, and the rue grows bi)nie wi' thyme), 

Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

The carlin gaed thro' Ihem like ony wud bear 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae mair; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

A reekit wee Devil looks over the wa' 

(Hey, and the rue grows Ixmie wi' thyme), 

" O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a'; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 267 

The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife 

(Elcy, aiul the rue grows i)nnie wi' thyme), 
He ]iilic(l Ihe man that was lied to a vife; 

And llie thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

Tlic Devil lie swore by the kirk and the i)cll 

(Hey, and the rue grows boiiie wi' thyme), 
lie was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell; 

And the thyme it is wiliier'd, and rue is in prinie. 

Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his ]iack 

(lloy, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 
And to her auld liusband lie's carried her Ijack; 

And the thyme it is v\iilier'tl, and rue is in prime. 

" I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life " 

(I ley, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 
" But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife; " 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 

Tune — " Duticnti Davison.'" 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
There was a lad that follow'd her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was dricgh, and Meg was skiegh, 

Her favour Duncan could na win; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock. 

And ay she shook the temper-pin. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon tiie banks they eased their shanks. 

And ay she set the wheel between: 
But Duncan swore a haly aith, 

That Meg should lie a bride the morn; 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith. 

And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 

We'll big a house — a wee, wee house. 

And we will live like King ami Queen, 
Sae blvthe and merry we will be 

When ye set byJhe wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk; 

A man n>ay light and no be slain; 
A man may kiss a bonie lass. 

And ay be welcome back again. 



268 



THE CARLES OF DYSART. 



THE WEARY FUND O' TOW. 

Tune — " The weary ^und o tow.'" 

TiiK wenry puiul, the weary pund, 

The wenry imnd o' t(.)w; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin lier ti)vv. 
I boujjlit my wife a staiie o' lint 

As glide as e'er did grow ; 
And a' that she has made o' that, 

Is ae poor pund o' tow. 

Tiiere sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyond the ingle low, 
And ay she took the tiiher souk 

To drouk the stowrie low. 

(^uoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame, 

(lae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't — 

Gaed foremost o'er the knovve; 
And or I wad anither jad, 
I'll walloji in a tow. 

The weary pund, the weary pund. 

The weary pund o' tow ! 
I think my wife will end her life 
Before she ir^pin her tow. 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — " Up lui' the Ploughmnn." 

TilK ]-)loughmnn he's a bonie lad, 

His mind is evur true, jo. 
His gnrters knit below his knee, 

His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

CHORUS. 

Then up wi't a', my plous^hman lad. 
And hey, my merry ploughman; 

Of a' the trades that I do ken. 
Commend me to the ploughman. 

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, 

He's aften wat and weary; 
Cast off the wat, put on the dry. 

And gae to bed, my Dearie ! 
Up wi't a', &c. 



I will wash my ploughman's hose. 

And I will dress his o'erlay; 
I will mak my ])lougliman's Ded, 

And cheer him late and early. 
Up wi't a', &c. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Saint Johnston, 

The IjoniesI sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dap^-n'. 
Up wi't a', &c. 

Snavv-white stockins on his legs. 
And siller buckles glancin'; 

A gude blue bannet on his head. 
And O, but he \\as handsome ! 
Up wi't -J, &c. 

Commend me to the barn-yard, 
And the corn-mou', man ; 

I never gat my coggie fou 
Till I met wi' the ploughman. 
Up wi't a', &c. 



THE CARLES OF DYSART- 

Tune — " Hey, ca' thro'." 

Ur wi' the carles of Dysart, 

And the lads o' Buckhaven, 
And the kimmers o' Lnrgo, 
Aid the lasses o' Leven. 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 

For we hae mickle ado; 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we hae mirkle ado. 

We Jiafi tales to tell, 

And we hae sangs to sing; 

We hie pennies to spend. 
And we liae pints to bring. 

We'll live a' our days, 

And them that come beh'n'. 
Let them do the like. 

And s[)end the gear they win. 
lley, ca' thro', ca" thro'. 

For we hae mickle ado- 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro'. 
For we hae mickle ado. 



COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 



269 



WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN 
GRAY. 

Tune — "Duncan Cray." 

Weary fa' you, Duncan (-ray — 

lla, lia, the {•irdin o't ! 
Wac gae by you, Duncan (Iray — 

lla, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Wlien a' the lave gae to their play, 
Then 1 maun sit tiie lee-lang day, 
And jog the cratlle \vi' nvy tae, 

And a' for the girtlin o't. 

Bonie was the Lammas moon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Glowrin' a' the liilis aboon — 

lla, ha, tiie girdin o"t ! 
The girdin iirak, the iieast cam down, 
I tint my curch, and baith myshoon; 
All! Duncan, ye're an unco loon — 

Wae on the bad girdin' o't ! 

lUit, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 

I la, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Ise bless you w i' my hindmost breath — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baiih, 
And auld Mess John will mentl the 
skaith, 

And clout the bad girdin o't. 

MY IIOCIGIE. 

Tune — " IV/iat ivili I do gin my Hoggic 
die? " 

What will I do gin my IToggie die? 

My joy, my pride, my Hoggie ! 
My only beast, 1 had na mae, 

And vow but I was vogie ! 

The lee-lang night we watch'd the 
fauld, 

Me and my faithfu' doggie; 
We heard nought but the roaring linn, 

Amang the braes sac scroggie; 

Jkit the howlet cry'd frae the castle wa'. 

The blitter frae the boggie. 
The tod reply'd upi)n the hill, 

1 trembled for my Hoggie. 



When day did daw, and cocks did craw, 
The morning it was foggie ; 

An unco tyke lap (j'er the dyke. 
And maist has kill'd my Hoggie. 

WHERE HAE YE BEEN. 

Tune — " Killiccrankie." 
WiiAKE hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Where hae ye been sae brankie, O? 
O, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O. 
An' ye hae been whare I hae been, 

Ye had na been so cantie, O; 
An' ye had seen what I hatl seen. 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 

I fought at land, T fought at sea; 

At hame I fought my auntie, O; 
l^ut I met the Devil an' Dundee, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr. 

An' Clavers got a clankie, O; 
Or I had fed an Athole gled, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 

COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 

Tunis — " Cock up your heaver." 
WilF.N first my brave Johnnie lad 

Came to this town. 
He had a blue bonnet 

That wanted the crown; 
But now he has gotten 

A hat and a feather, — 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad. 

Cock up your beaver ! 

Cock up your beaver, 

And cock it fu' sprush, 
We'll over the border 

And gie them a brush; 
There's somebody there 

We'll teach better behaviour — 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 

THE HERON BALLADS. • 

FUiST UALLAD. 

Whom will you send to London town, 

To Parliament and a' that? 
Or wha in a' the country round 

The best deserves to fa' that? 



270 



THE ELECTION. 



For a' that, an' a' that, 
Thro' Galloway and a' that ! 
Where is the laird ox belted 

knight 
That best deserves to fa' that? 

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, 

And wha is't never saw that? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets 
And has a doubt of a' that? 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent patriot. 
The honest man, an' a' that. 

Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that; 
Wi' dukes an' lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 

But why should we to nobles jouk, 

And is't against the law that? 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
A lord may be a lousy h)un, 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, an' a' that. 
p"or a' that, an' a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
For we're not to be bought an' 

sold 
l.ikc naigs, an' nowt, an' a' that. 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughlree's laird, an' a' that, 
Our representative to lie. 

For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
A House of Commons such as 

he. 
They would be blest that saw 
that. 



THE ELECTION. 

SECOND BALLAD. 

Fy, let US a' la Kirkcudbright, 

r\n- there will l)e bickerin' there'. 
For Murray's light-horse are to muster, 

And (), how the heroes will swear ! 
An' there will be Murray commanilcr, 

And Gordon the battle to win; 
Like brothers they'll stand by each 
other, 

Sae knit in alliance an' kin. 

And there will be black-lippet Johnnie, 

The tongue o' the trump to tliem a'; 
And he gat na hell for his haddin' 

The Deil gets na justice ava' ; 
An' there will be Kempleton's birkie, 

A boy no sae black at the bane. 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 

We'll e'en let the subject alane. 

An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, 

Dame Justice fu' brawlie hns sped. 
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head? 
An' there will be Cardoness, Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes; 
A wight that will weather damnation. 

For the Devil the prey will despise. 

An' there will be Douglasses doughty. 

New christening towns far and near! 
Abjuring their democrat doings, 

By kissing the — o' a peer; 
An' there will be Kennuire sae gen'rous 

Whose honour is proof to the storm. 
To save them from stark reprobation 

He lent them his name to the firm. 

But we winna mention Redcastle, 

The body e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller. 

An' twere na the cost o' the rajx;. 
An' where is our King's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return? 
The billie is gettin' his (|uestions. 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 

An' there will be lads o' the gospel, 
Muirhead wha's as good as he's true; 

An' there will be Buittle's apostle, 
Wha's more o' the black than the blue; 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 



271 



An' there will be folk from St. Mary's, 
A house o' great merit and note, 

The (leil ane hut honours Ihem highly, — 
The deii ane will gie them iiis vote ! 

An' there will l)e wealthy young Richard, 

Dame Fortune should hing by the 
neck ; 
For jM-odigal, thriftless bestowing — 

His merit had won him respect: 
An' there will be rich brother nabobs. 

Though nabobs, yet men of the first; 
An' there will be Collieston's whiskers. 

An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst. 

An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie, 

'I'ak tent how ye purchase a dram; 
An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, 

An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam ; 
An' there will be trusty Kcrroughlree, 

Whose honour was ever his law, 
If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel. 

His worth might be sample for a'. 

An' can we forget the auld major, 

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys; 
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 

Him only 'lis justice to praise. 
An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, 

And also Barskimming's gudc knight; 
An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 

VVha, luckily, roars in the right. 

An' there, frae the Niddisdale's borders, 

Wni mingle the Ma.xwells in droves; 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' 
Walie, 

That griens for the fishes an' loaves; 
An' there will be Logan MacDowall, 

Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there, 
An' also the wild Scot o' Galloway, 

Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. 

Then hey the chaste interest o' Brough- 
ton. 

An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring! 
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a King; 
An' hey for the sanctified Murray, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd; 
He founder'd his horse among harlots. 

But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

THIRD IIAI.LAD. (MAY, 1 796.) 

Wha will buy my troggin. 

Fine election ware; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 
Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

There's a noble Earl's 

Fame and high renown, 
For an auld sang — 

It's thought the gudcs were stown. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the worth o' Broughton 

In a needle's ce; 
Here's a reputatit)n 

Tint by ISalmaghic. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald — 

So was never worn. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's its stuff and lining, 

Cardoness' head; 
Inne for a sodgcr 
A' the wale o' lead. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's a little wadset 

Buittles scrap o' truth, 
Pawn'd in a gin-shop 

Quenching holy drouth. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's armorial bearings 

Frae the manse o' Urr; 
The crest, an auld crab-apple 

Rotten at the core. 

Buy In-aw troggin, &c. 

Here is .Satan's picture, 

Like a bizzarcl glcd. 
Pouncing poor Rcdcastle 

Spravvlin' as a tacd. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 



272 



JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMENTATION. 



Here's the worth and wisdom 
(/oUiesloii can boast; 

By a tliie\'ish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Murray's fragments 
()' iho ten commands; 

Gifted by black Jock 

To get them aff his hands. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin? 

If to buy ye're slack, 
llornie's turiiin' chapman, — 

He'll buy a' llie pack. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 



JOHN RUSHRY'S LAMEN- 
TATION. 

Tune — " The Babes in the Wood." 

'TWAS in the seventeen bunder year 

O' grace and ninety-live, 
That year I was the wae'est man 

O' ony man alive. 

Ip March the three-and-twentieth morn, 
Tiie sun raise clear and lirighl; 

But oh I was a waefu' man 
ICre to-fa' o' the night. 

Ycr! (lallowav lang did rule this land, 

\Vi' eipial right and fame, 
And thereto was his Idnsman join'd 

The Murray's noble name. 

"\'erl (lalloway lang did rule the land. 
Made me the jutlge o' strife; 

But now Verl (jalioway's sceptre's broke, 
And eke my hangman's knife. 

'Twas l)y the banks o' bonie Tree, 
Beside Kirkcudbrigiit's towers. 

The Stewart and the Murray there 
Did muster a' their powers. 

The Murray, on the auld gray yaud, 

Wr winged S]nirs did ride. 
That auld gray yaud, yea, Nidsdale rade, 

He staw upon Nidside. 



An' there had na been the ycrl himsel', 
there had l)een nae play; 

But ("larlies was to London gane, 
And sae the kye might stray. 

And there was Balmaghie, I ween, 
In front rank he wad shine; 

But Balmaghie had i)etter been 
Drinking Madeira v\ine. 

Frae the Cdenkens came to our aid, 

A chief o' doughty deed; 
In case that worth sliouid wanted be, 

O' Kcnmure we had neetl. 

And by our banners march'd Muirhead, 

And Buittle was na slack; 
Whase haly priesthood nane can stain, 

For wha can dye the black 1 

And there sae grave .S(]uire Cardoness, 
Look'il on till a' was done; 

.Sae, in the tower of Canionness, 
A howlet sits at noon. 

And there led I a Bushby clan. 

My gamesome bilHc Will; 
And my son Maitland, wise as brave, 

My footsteps foUow'd still. 

The Douglas and the Heron's name 
We set nought to their score; 

The Douglas and the Heron's name 
Had felt our weight before. 

But Douglasses o' weight had we, 

The pair o' lusty lairds, 
l'\)r building cot -houses sae famed, 

And christening kail-yards. 

And there Redcastle drew bvs sword, 
That ne'er was stained wi' gore. 

Save on a wanderer lame and blind, 
To drive him frae his door. 

And last came creeiiing CoUicston, 
Was mair in fear than wrallv, 

Ae knave was constant in his mind. 
To keep that knave frae scaith. 



y£ JACOBITES BY NAME. 273 

YE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 

Tune — " Shawnboy." 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation; 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honour'd station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion; 
A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, 

Who marked each element's border; 
Who formed this frame with lieneticent aim. 

Whose sovereign statute is order; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter; 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre ! 

YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

Tune — " Ve Jacobites by itatne." 

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name. 

Your fautcs I will proclaim. 

Your doctrines I maun blame — 
You shall hear. 

What is right and what is vvang, by the law, by the law? 
What is right and what is wrang by the law? 
What is right and what is wrang? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A \Aeak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar, 
What makes heroic strife fam'd afar? 
What makes heroic strife? 
To whet th' assassin's knife, 
Or hunt a parent's life 
Wi' bluidie war. 

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state; 
Then let your schemes alone, 
Adore the rising sun, 

And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



2 74 



THE COLLIER LADDIE. 



SONG — AH, CHLORIS. 

Tune — " Major Graham." 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be. 
That thou of love wilt hear; 

If from the lover thou maun llee, 
Yet let the friend be dear. 

Altho' I love my Chloris mair 
Than ever tongue could tell; 

My passion 1 will ne'er declare, 
I'll say, I wish thee well. 

Tho' a' my daily care thou art, 
And a' my nightly dream, 

I'll hide the struggle in my heart. 
And say it is esteem. 

WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. 

Whan I sleep I dream, 

Whan I wauk I'm eerie, 
Sleep I canna get, 

For thinkin' o' my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on the bonie lad 

That has my heart a keeping. 

Ay waukin O, waukin ay and 

wearie, 
Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' 
my dearie. 

Lanely night conies on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on my bonie lad. 

An' I bleer my een wi' greetin' ! 
Ay waukin, &c. 

KATHARINE JAFFRAY. 

Theke liv'd a lass in yonder dale. 
And down in yonder glen, (); 

And Katharine JalTray was her name, 
Weel known to many men, O. 

Out came the Lord of Lauderdale, 
Out frae the south countrie, O, 

All for to court this pretty maid, 
Her bridegroom for to be, O. 



He's tell'd her father and mother baith, 

As I hear sindry say, O; 
But he has na tell'd the lass hersel' 

Till on her wedding day, O. 

Then came the Laird o' Lochinton 
Out frae the English border. 

All for to court this pretty maid, 
All mounted in good order. 

THE COLLIER LADDIE. 

O WHARE live ye my bonie lass, 
And tell me how they ca' ye? 

My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow my Collier laddie. 

see ye not yon hills and dales 
The sun shines on sac brawly : 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, 
If ye'U leave your Collier laddie. 

And ye shall gang in rich attire, 

Weel buskit up fu' gaudy; 
And ane to wait at every hand, 

If ye'U leave your Collier laddie. 

The' ye had a' the sun shines on, 
And the earth conceals sae lowly; 

1 would turn my back or. you and it a', 
And embrace my Collier laddie. 

I can win my five pennies in a day. 
And spend it at night fall brawlie; 

I can mak my bed in the Collier's neuk, 
And lie down wi' my Collier laddie. 

Loove for loove is the bargain for me, 
Tho' the wee cot-house should baud 
me; [bread. 

And the warld before me to win my 
And fare fa' my Collier laddie. 

WHEN I THINK ON THl 
HAPPY DAYS. - 

When I think on the hap']-)y days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 

And now what lands between us lie, 
How can I be but eerie ! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours 
As ye were wae and weary ! 

It was na sae ye glinted by 
When I was w i' my dearie. 



JVA£ IS MY HEART. 



275 



YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' 
THE PLAIN, 

Tune — " The Carlin o' the Glen." 

Young Jamie, pride of a' llie plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain; 
'I'ho' a' our lassos lie diil rove. 
And rcignVI resistless King of Love : 
But now \\ i' siglis and starting tears, 
He strays amang the woods and briers; 



Or in the glens and roeky caves 
Ills sad complaining dowie raves: 

I wha sae late did range and rove. 
And changed with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near. 
Repentance I should buy sae dear; 
The slighted maids my •orment see. 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree; 
While slic, my cruel, scornfu' fair, 
I'orbids me e'er to see her mair ! 



THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING, 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn. 
Our lads gaetl a Imnting, ae tiny at the dawn. 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and monie a glen. 
At length they discover'd a i)onie moor-hen. 
I red you l)eware at the iiunting, yt)ung men; 
I red you beware at the hunting, young men; 
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring, 
But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen. 
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather iiells. 
Her coU)urs betray'd her on yon mossy fells; 
Her plumage out-lustcred the pride o' the spring, 
And O ! as she wanton'd gay on the wing. 

I red, &c. 
Auld Pha>l)us himsel, as he pcep'd o'er the hill. 
In spite at her jiluniage he tried his skill: 
He levell'd his rays where slie bask'd on the brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where slie lay. 

I red, &c. 
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill. 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a llight. 

I red, &c. 

WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ec; 

Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me : 

Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear. 

And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures; and deep hae I loved; 

Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair hae I proved: 

But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 

I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if I were where hapjiy I hae been; 

Down by yon stream and yon bonie castle green: 

For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 

Wha wad soon dry the tear frae I'hillis's ee. 



276 



GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER. 



EPPIE M'NAB. 

O SAW ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
O saw ye my dearie, my Mppie M'Nab? 
She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, 
She winna come hame to her ain Jocii Rab. 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
Whate'er thou has done, be it late, be it soon, 
Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 

What says she, my dearie, my Epjiie M'Nab? 
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns tliee, her ain Jock Rab. 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O liad I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 



AN' O ! MY EPPIE. 

An' O ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna lie hajipy 

Wi' Epjiie Adair? 
By love, and by beauty, 
By law, and by duty, 
1 swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair ! 

An' O ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Epjiie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' E]ipie Adair? 
A' pleasure exile me. 
Dishonor defile me. 
If e'er I beguile thee, 

My Eppie Adair ! 



CxUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER. 

GuDEEN to you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye dp? 
Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, 
The better that I'm fou. 

We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, 
We're a' noddin at our house at 
hame. 



Kate sits i' the neuk, 

Suppin' hen broo; 
Deil tak Kate 

An' she be a noddin too ! 
We're a noddin, &c. 

How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 
And how do ye fare? 

A pint o' the best o't. 
And twa pints mair. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 
And how do ye thrive; 

How many bairns hae ye? 
Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

Are they a' Johny's? 

Eh ! atweel no : 
Twa o' them were gotten • 

When Johny was awa. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

Cats like milk. 

And dogs like broo; 
Lads like lasses weel. 

And lassies lads too. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 



THE LADDIES B Y THE BANKS a NITH. 



277 



O THAT J HAD NE'ER BEEN 
MARRH^:i). 

tiiaY I lirnl iie'ur l)ccn married, 
1 wnd never liad nae care; 

Now I've gotlen wife and bairns, 
An' tiiey cry crowdie ever niair. 
Alice crowdie, twice crowdie. 

Three times crowdie in a day; 
Gin ye crowdie <jny more, 

Ye'U crowdie a' my meal away. 

Waeful want and hunger fley me, 

C"iIov\riii by the liallen en'; 
Sair 1 fecht Iheni at the door, 

But ay I'm eerie they come l^cn. 
Ance crowdie, &c. 

THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. 
Thkrk's news, lasses, news, 

(jude news I've to tell, 
Tlicre's a boat fu' o' lads 
Come to our town to sell. 
The wean wants a cradle. 

An' the cradle wants a cod. 
An' I'll no gang to my bed 
Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, Mither, quo' she, 

Do what ye can, 
I'll no gang to my bed 

Till I get a man. 
Tlie wean, &c. 

1 hae as good a craft rig 

As made o' yird and stane; 
And vvaly fu' the Icy-crap 
For 1 maun till'd again. 
The wean, &c. 

SGROGGAM. 
Thkkk was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen, 

Scroggam; 
She brew'd good ale for gentlemen, 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

The gudewife' dochster fell in a fever, 

Scroggam ; 
The priest o' the parish fell in anither, 
Sing auld ("owl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 



They laid the twa i' the bed thegither, 

Scroggam; 
That the heat o' the tane might cool 

the lither. 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

FRAE THE FRIENDS AND 
LAND I LOVE. 

Fkak the friends and land I love, 

Driven by Fortune's felly spite, 
I'Vae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never niair to taste delight; 
Never niair maun lio]ie to lind 

Fase frae toil, relief frae care: 
When renienibraiice wreclvS the mind, 

Measures but unveil despair. 
Brightest dimes shall mirk a]ipear, 

Desart ilka blooming shore. 
Till the I'ntes, nne niair severe, 

I'riendship, love, and peace restore; 
Till revenge, wi' laurell'd head, 

Bring our banish'd hanic again; 
And ilka loyal, bonic lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 

THE LAD1)H':S 15Y THE 
HANKS O' NITH. 

ELECTION HALI.AD, I789. 

Tune — " Up and ivanr them a'." 
TliK la<l(lies by the banks o' Nilh 

\Va<l trust his (jrace wi' a', Jamie, 
But he'll sair them as he sair'd theking — 
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a'; 
The Johnstons hae thcguidin'o't, 
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa. 
The day he stude his country's friend, 

Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie. 
Or frae i)uir man a blessin' wan. 

That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 
But wha is he, his country's boast? 
Like him there is na twa, Jamie; 
There's no a callnnt tents the kye, 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 
To end the wark, here's Whistlebirk, 
Lang may his whistle ])Iaw, Jamie; 
And Maxwell true o' sterling blue. 
And we'll be Johnstons a', Jamie. 



278 



SONG. 



THE BONIE LASS OF 
ALBANY. 

Tune — " Mary^s dreajn." 

My henrl is wae, and unco wae, 
To think upon the raging sea, 

That roars between her gardens green 
And the bonie Lass of Albany. 

This lovely maid's of royal blood 

That ruled Albion's kingdoms three, 

But oh, alas, for her bonie face, 

Tliey hae wrang'd the Lass of Albany. 

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde 
There sits an isle of high degree. 

And a town of fame whose princely 
name 
Should grace the Lass of Albany. 

But there's a youth, a witless youth. 
That fills the place where she should 
be; 

We'll send him o'er to his native shore, 
And bring our ain sweet Albany. 

Alas the day, and wo the day, 
A false usurper wan the gree. 

Who now commands the towers and 
lands — 
The royal right of Albany. 

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray. 
On bended knees most ferventlie, 

The time may come, with pipe and 
drum 
We'll welcome hame fair Albany. 



SONG. 



Tune — "Maggy Lauder."^ 

When first I saw fair Jeanie's face, 

I couldna tell what ailed me, 
My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat, 

My een they almost failed me. 
She's ay sae neat, sae trim, sae tight, 

All grace does round her hover, 
Ae look deprived me o' my heart. 

And 1 became a lov?r. 
She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae gay. 

She's aye sae blythe and cheerie; 
She's aye sae bonie, blythe, and gay, 

O gin I were her dearie ! 

Had I Dundas's whole estate. 

Or Hopetoun's wealth to shine in; 
Did warlike laurels crown my brow, 

Or humbler bays entwining — 
I'd lay them a' at Jeanie's feet. 

Could I but hope to move her. 
And prouder than a belted knight, 

I'd be my Jeanie's lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae 
gay, &c. 

But sair I fear some happier swain 

Has gained sweet Jeanie's favour ; 
If so, may every bliss ])e hers. 

Though I maun never have her: 
But gang she east, or gang she west, 

'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over, 
While men have eyes, or ears, or taste, 

She'll always find a lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae 
gay, 6cc. 



APPENDIX. 



The follo\\'ing Elegy, Extcmpo7-e Verses to Gavin Hamilton, and J'ersicles on 
Sign-/'osts, now for the first time published, are extracted, it is supposed, from 
the copy of his Contnton-place Book which Burns presented to Mrs. Dunlop of 
Dunlop. The copy, after having been in the hands of several persons, and at 
each remove denuded of certain pages, came into the possession of Mr. Stillie, 
bookseller. Princes Street, Edinburgh, some years since, and is now the property 
of Mr. Macmillan. Besides the following poems, it contains two stanzas never 
before pul^lished of the Epitaph on Robert Eergiisson, versions of There was a Lad 
7vas born in Kyle, and Gordon Castle, differing in some respects from those com- 
monly printed; all of which have been embodied in the notes to the present 
edition. In the Common-place Book, the Eligy i^ thus introduced: — "The fol- 
lowing poem is the work of some hapless unknow n son of the Muses, who deserved 
a better fate. There is a great deal of ' The Voice of Cona,' in his solitary 
mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone's language, 
they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet." Burns, it will be 
seen, does not claim the authorship, and, from internal evidence, the Editor is of 
ojjinion that it was not written by him. Still, the Elegy, so far at least as the 
Editor is aware, exists nowliere else; and if Burns did ncjt actually compose it, he 
at least thought it worthy of being copied with his own hand into a book devoted 
almost exclusively to his own compositions. Even if it were certain that Burns 
was not the author, still, the knowledge that he admired it, and that through his 
agency it alone exists, is considered sufficient excuse for its admission here. The 
Extempore Verses to Gavin Hamilton are as certainly Burns's as is Death and Dr. 
Hornbook, or the Address to the Dei I. The dialect, the turn of phrase, the glit- 
tering surface of sarcasm, with the strong under-current of sense, and the peculiar 
off-hand impetuosity of idea and illustration, unmistakeably indicate Burns's hand, 
and his only. In the Covimon-place Book, no date is given; but from the terms 
of the two closing stanzas, it would appear that the voyage to Jamaica was in 
contem]-ilation at the period of its composition. The last stanza is almost identi- 
cal in thought and expression with the closing lines of the well-known Dedication 
to Gavin Hamilton, which was written at that time, and which appeared in the 
first edition of the Poems printed at Kilmarnock. 

The Ver sides on Sign-posts have the following introduction : — "The everlasting 
surliness of a Lion, Saracen's head, &c., or the unchanging blandness of the Land- 
lord welcoming a traveller, on some sign-posts, would be no bad similies of the 
constant affected fierceness of a Bully, or the eternal simper of a Frenchman or a 
Fiddler." The Versicles themselves are of little worth, and are indebted entirely 
to their paternity for their appearance here. 



28o 



APPENDIX. 



KLEGY. 

Strait is the spot aixl i,n-cen the sod, 
From whence my soirows liuw : 

And soundly slecjis the ever dear 
Inhabitant below. 

Pardon my transport, gentle shade, 

While o'er the turf 1 bow ! 
Thy earthly house is circumscrib'd. 

And solitary now. 

Not one poor stone to tell thy name, 
Or make thy virtues known : 

But what avails to me, to thee, 
The sculpture of a stone ? 

I'll sit me down upon this turf, 

And wi^ie away this tear : 
The chill blast passes swiftly by, 

And flits around thy bier. 

Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, 
And sad their house of rest : 

Low lies the head by Death's cold arm 
In awful fold embrac'd. 

I saw the grim Avenger stand 

Incessant by thy side; 
Unseen by thee, his deadly breath 

Thy lingering fra)ne destroy'd. 

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek. 
And wither'd was thy bloom, 

Till the slow poison brought thy youth 
Untimely to the tomb. 

Thus wasted are the ranks of men, 
Youth, Health, and Beauty fall: 

The ruthless ruin spreads around. 
And overwhelms us all. 

Behold where round thy narrow house 
The graves unnumbcr'd lie ! 

The multitudes that sleep below 
Existed but to die. 

Some, with the tottering steps of Age, 
Trod down the darksome way : 

And some, in youth's lamented prime, 
Like thee, were torn away. 

Yet these, however hard their fate. 
Their native earth receives : 

Amid their weeping friends they died, 
And fill their fathers' graves. 



I'rum ihy lov'd friends when first thy 
heart 

Was taught by Heaven to flow: 
Far, far rf.iuov'd, the ruthless stroke 

Surpris'd and laid thee low. 

At the last limits of our isle, 
Wash'd by the western wave, 

Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful bard 
Sits lonely on thy grave. 

Pensive he eyes, before him spread, 
The deep, outstretch'd and vast; 

His mourning notes are borne away 
Along the rapid blast. 

And while, amid the silent Dead 
Thy hapless fate he mourns, 

His own long sorrows freshly bleed, 
And all his grief returns. 

Like thee, cut off in early youth 
And flower of beauty's pride. 

His friend, his first and only joy, 
His much loved Stella, died. 

Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate 

Resistless bears along; 
And the same rapid tide shall whelm 

The Poet and the Song. 

The tear of pity which he shed, 

He asks not to receive; 
Let but his poor remains be laid 

Obscurely in the grave. 

Ilis grief-worn heart, with truest joy, 
Shall meet the welcome shock : 

His airy harp shall lie unstrung 
And silent on the rock. 

O, my dear maid, my Stella, when 
Shall this sick period close; 

And lead the solitary bard 
To his beloved vepose? 

EXTEMPORE.. 

TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. 

To you, Sir, this summons I've sent. 
Pray whip till the pownie is fraething; 

But if you demand what I want, 
I honestly answer you, naething. 



Ne'er scoin a poor Poet like me, 
J'or uUy just living and l)iealliing, 

While people of every degree 

Are busy employed about — naething. 

Poor rentuni-per-centum may fast, 
And grumble his hurdles their claith- 

ing; 
He'll fmd, when the balance is cast. 
He's gane to the devil for — naething. 

The courtier cringes and bows, 

Ambition has likewise its plaything; 

A coronet beams on his brows : 

And what is a coronet? — naething. 

Some quarrel the Presbyter gown. 
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing. 

But e\ery good fellow will own 

Their quarrel is all about — naething. 

The lover may sparkle and glow, 

Approaching his bonie bit gay thing: 

But marriage will soon let him know 
lie's gotten a buskit up naething. 

Fhe Poet may jingle and rhyme 
In hopes of a laureate wreathing. 

And when he has wasted his time 

He's kindly rewarded with naething. 

The thundering bully may rage. 

And swagger and swear like a 
heathen; 

But c,()llar him fast, Til engage, 

You'll iind that his courage is naething. 

Last mght with a feminine whig, 
A Poet she could na put faith in, 

But soon we grew lovingly big, 

I taught her,her terrors were naething. 

Her whigship was wonderful pleased. 
But charmingly tickled wi' ae thing; 



Her fingers I lovingly squeezed, 

And kissed her and promised her — 
naething. 

The priest anathemas may threat, — 
Predicament, Sir, that we're baith in; 

But when honour's reveille is beat, 
The holy artillery's naething. 

And now, I must mount on the wave. 
My voyage perhaps there is death in : 

But what of a v\atery grave? 

The drowning a Poet is naething. 

And now, as grim death's in ray thought. 
To you, Sir, I make this bequeathing: 

My service as long as ye've aught. 
And my friendship, by G — , when 
ye've naething. 



VERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS. 

He looked 
Just as your Sign-post lions do. 
As fierce, and quite as harmless too. 

PATIENT SrUlTDITY. 

So heavy, passive to the tempests' shocks, 
Strong on the Sign-post stands the stupid 
Ox. 



His face with smile eternal drest. 
Just like the Landlord to his guest. 
High as they hang with creaking din, 
To index out the Country Inn. 



A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and 

soul. 
The very image of a Barber's Poll; 
It shows a human face and wears a vvig. 
And looks, when well preserved, amazing 

big. 



THE 
LETTERS OF BURNS. 



■ No. I. 

TO MISS ELLISON BEGBIE. 

[Although the exact date of the correspondence with Miss Ellison Begbie 
cannot be a.jcertained, there appears to be good reason for attril)uting it to some 
time about 1 780-1, and for beUeving that they are the earhest letters of tlie poet 
which have been preserved. EUison was the daughter of a small farmer, and was 
engaged, at the time of the correspondence, as domestic servant to a family on 
the hanks of the Cessnock. She was an amiable, intelligent, i)ut not particularly 
handsome girl, and Burns was evidently serious in his desire to marry her. It was 
on the eve of his removal to Irvine to try his hand at llax-dressing, with a view 
to getting the means of marriage, that he learned the hopelessness of his passion. 
Ellison had already given her heart to another. She was the heroine of the song, 
" On Cessnock Banks."] 

Loch LEA. 
I VEKILY believe, my dear E., that the pure genuine feelings of love 
are as rare in the wodd as the pure genuine principles of virtue and 
piety. This I hope will account for the uncommon style of all my letters 
to you. By uncommon, I mean their being written in such a serious 
manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you 
should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress 
as he would converse with his minister. I don't know how it is, my 
dear; for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives 
me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those 
giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought 
that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- 
thing extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. warms my 
heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity kindles in 
my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy which are 
but too apt to infest me. I grasp every cr.-^.ature in the arms of universal 
benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and 
sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, 
I often look uij to the Divine Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude 
for the blessing which I hope He intends to bestow on me in bestowing 
you. I sincerely wish that He may bless my endeavours to make your 



286 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher 
parts of my natural temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of 
my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy of 
a man, and I will add worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm 
may profess love to a woman's person, whilst in reality his affection is 
centered in her pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go a-wooing as he 
goes to the horse-market to choose one who is stout and firm, and as we 
may say of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. 
I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour 
with myself, if I thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of 
the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor 
devils ! I don't envy them their happiness who have such notions. For 
my part I propose quite other pleasures with my dear partnf^r. — R. B. 

No. II. 

TO THE SAME. 
My dear E. Lochlea. 

I do not remember, in the course of your acquaintance and 
mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in 
love amongst people of our station in life : I do not mean the persons 
who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really 
placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, 
yet as 1 have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who 
are much better skilled in the affair of courtship than 1 am, I often think 
it is owing to lucky chance more tlian to good management, that there are 
not more unhappy marriages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of tlie females, 
and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves : 
some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest ; there is some- 
thing, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her com- 
pany. This I take to be what is called love with the greater par/- of us; 
and I must own, my dear E., it is a hard game such a one as you have to 
play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sin- 
cere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few 
months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may 
make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. 1 
am aware that perhaps the next time 1 have the pleasure of seeing you, 
you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the i)asi?ion 1 
have professed for you is perhaps one of those transient flashes I have 
been describing; but I hope, my dear E., you will do me the justice to 
believe me, when 1 assure you that the love 1 have for you is founded on 
the sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence so long 
as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired 
my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, 
my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the marriage state 



THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 287 



happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please, 
and a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel 
something like what they describe; but sure 1 am the nobler faculties of 
the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation 
of friendship, and it has always been my opinion that the married life 
was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as 
to grant my wishes and it shall please Providence to spare us to the 
latest period of life, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent 
down with wrinkled age; even then, when all other worldly circumstances 
will be indifferent to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, 
and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of these noble 
qualities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my 
affection for her. 

" O happy state! when souls each other draw, 
When love is liberty, and nature law." 

I know were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, who thinks her- 
self possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridiculous; 
but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only courtship I shall 
ever use to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I am sensible that it is vastly 
different from the ordinary style of courtship, but I shall make no 
apology — I know your good nature v/iJl excuse what your good sense 
may see amiss. — R. B. 

No. III. 
TO THE SAME. 

LoCMLEA. 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, 
that though in every other situation in life telling the truth is not only the 
safest, but actually by far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is never 
under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than 
when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. I do not 
think that it is very difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love 
and fondness which are not felt, and to make vows of constancy and 
fidelity which are never intended to be performed, if he be villain enough 
to practise such detestable conduct : but to a man whose heart glows with 
the principles of integrity and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of 
amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, and purity of manners 
— to such an one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from 
my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. 
There is such a number of foreboding fears, and distrustful anxieties 
crowd into my mind when 1 am in your company, or when I sit down 
to write to you, that what to speak or what to write I am altogether 
at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I shall in- 
variably keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain truth. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation 
and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be acted by any one in so 
noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. No, my dear E., 1 shall 
never endeavour to gain your favour by such detestable practices. If 
you will be so good and so generous as to admit me for your partner, 
your companion, your bosom friend through life, there is notliing on 
this side of eternity shall give me greater transport ; but I shall never 
think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will 
add, of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly 
request of you, and it is this : that you would soon either put an end to my 
hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous 
consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when con- 
venient. I shall only add further that, if a behaviour regulated (though 
perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart 
devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote 
your happiness ; if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, in a 
husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend and sincere 
lover, — R. B. 



No. IV. 
To THE SAME. 

LOCHLEA. 

I OUGHT, in good manners, to have acknowledged the /eccipt of your 
letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the contents of 
it, that 1 can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write you on the 
subject. I will not attempt to describe what 1 felt on receiving your 
letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though it was in the 
politest language of refusal, still it was peremptory; "you were sorry 
you could not make me a return, but you wish me," what, without you, 
I never can obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be 
weak and unmanly to say that without you I never can be happy ; 
but sure I am, that sharing life with you would have given it a relish, 
that, wanting you, I can never taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good sense, 
do not so much strike me : these, possil)iy, may be met with in a few 
instances in others; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine 
softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect t^o meet 
with in such a degree in this world. All these charming qualities, 
heightened by an education much beyond anything I have ever met 
in any woman I ever dared to approach, have made an impression 
on my heart that I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagina- 
tion has fondly flattered myself with a wish — I dare not say it ever 
reached a hope — that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had 
formed the most delightful images, and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 289 

but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really had no right to ex- 
pect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress : still 1 presume to 
ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on 
vou, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little further off, and you, 
i suppose, will soon leave this place, I wish to see or hear from you soon : 
and if an expression should perhaps escape me rather too warm for 

friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss (pardon me 

the dear expression for once), . . . R. B. 

No. V. 

TO WILLIAM BURNES. 

[His disappointed love, his di-itaste for the dull, laborious eiriployment of flax- 
heckling, and the umpromisiiig nature of the speculation, combined, with a 'Severe 
nervous malady, to throw Burns into a state of painful mental depression. It was 
a time, as he afterwards said, which he could not recall wifhout a shudder.] 

Honoured Sir, Xkwv.^, December ■2^th,1■,'&■^. 

I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New Year's Day ; but work comes so hard 
upon us, that 1 do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for 
some other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is 
nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, 
and on the whole I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by 
very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has .so debilitated my 
mind that I dare neither review past events, ^ nor look forward into 
futurity; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most 
anhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an 
hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I fi;liiiiiiicr a little into 
futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is 
looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite 
transported at the thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an 
eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this 
weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired of it, and if I do not very 
much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. 

" The soul uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come." 

It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, i6th, and 17th verses 
of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses 
in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm v.'ilh 
which they inspire me for all that this world has to ofTer. As for this world. 
I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of 
entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether unconcerned at the 
thoughts of tliis life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await 
me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing to meet 
them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks 

' In all Dr. Currie's four editions (1800-1803) the word " wants " is here given, an obvious 
misprint for "events." 



290 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



for the lessons of virtue and piety you iiave given nie, which were too 
much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been 
remembered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my 
mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and with wishing 
you a merry New Year's Day, I shall conclude. I am, honoured Sir, 

Your dutiful Son, 

RdlJEKT BL'KNESS. 

P.S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get more. 

No. VI. 
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTI'.U, STAI'l.ES INN lUUMMNdS, I.ONnON. 

[John Murdoch, before his removal to London, kept the schot)! of Lochlea, 
wliere the sous of William lUirncs were for a time his pupils.] 

Dear Sir, Lochlea, ijM January, 1783. 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting 
you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, 
I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor 
ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness and 
friendship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the 
result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher; and 
I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you will be 
pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, 
indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits; and, in this respect, I hope, 
my conduct will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; but, as a man 
of the world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have thought 
that, bred as I have been, under a father who has figured pretty well as 
uti hotiiinc dcs affaires, I might have been what the world calls a pushing, 
active fellow; but to tell you the truth. Sir, there is hardly anylliing 
more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world, to see and 
observe; and I very easily compound with the knave \vlio tricks me of 
my money, if there be anything original about him, which shows me 
human nature in a different light from anything I have seen before. In 
short, the joy of my heart is to " study men, their manners, and their 
ways;" and for this darling subject, 1 cheerfully sacrifice every other con- 
sideration. I am cpiite indolent about those great concerns that set the 
bustling, busy sons of care agog; and if I have to answer for the present 
hour, I am very ca.sy with regard to anything further. Even tJie last shift 
of the unfortunate and the wretched does not much terrify me : I know 
that even then my talent for what country folks call " a sensible crack," 
when once it is sanctified by a hoarv head, woultl jirocurc me so much 
esteem, that even then — I would learn to be haiipw' However, 1 ai\ 

' Ho evidently means .is a waiidciing l)c;.;gar. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 291 

under no apprehensions about that; for though indolent, yet so far as an 
extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy; and in many 
things, especially in tavern matters, I am a strict economist: not, indeed, 
for the sake of the money ; but one of the principal parts in my com- 
position is a kind of pride of stomach ; and I scorn to fear the face of 
any man living: above everything, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking 
in a corner to avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in 
my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears 
economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My 
favourite authors are of tlie sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, partic- 
ularly his "Elegies;" Thomson; "Man of Feeling" — a book I prize 
next to the Bible; "Man of the World; " Sterne, especially his " Senti- 
mental Journey;" Macpherson's " Ossian," &c. : these are the glorious 
models after which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 
'tis absurd to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments 
lighted up at the sacred flame — the man whose heart distends with benev- 
olence to all the human race — he " who can soar above this little scene 
of things " — can he descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the 
terraefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ! Oh how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a poor, insignificant devil, 
unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, when I 
happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and "catching 
the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on 
every side, as an idle incumbrance in their way .... 

Dear Sir, yours, 

R. B. 

No. VII. 

COMMON-PLACE BOOK. 

[The following "Observations" were written between 17S3 and i7S5,.Tnd were 
sent by Burns to Mr. Robert Riddel, with the following note: " My dear -Sir, — 
On rummaging over some old papers I lighted on a MS. of my early years, in 
which I had determined to write myself out; as I was placed by fortune among a 
class of men to whom my ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant that the 
book should have lain by me, in the fond hope that some time or other, even after 
I was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody capable of 
appreciating their value."] 

Observations, Hixts, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, &c., by Robert 
BuRNESS; a man who had little art in making money, and still less 
in keeping it; but was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal ot 
honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational and irrational. 
— As he was but little indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a 
plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his un- 
])olished, rustic way of life; but as I believe they are really liis own, it 
may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature to see 
how a ploughman tliinks and feels under the pressure of love, ambition, 



292 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 

anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified 
by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alike, I believe, on 
all the species. 

"There are numbers in the world who do not want sense to make a figure, so much as an 
opuiion of their own ahilities to put them upon recording their observations, and allowing them the 
same importance which they do to those that appear in print." — Shenstone. 

" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 

The forms our pencil or our pen designed! 
Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face. 

Such the soft image of our youthlul mind." — Ibid. 

April, 1783. 

Notwitlistanding all that has been said against love, respecting the 
folly and weakness it leads a young inexperienced mind into; still I think 
it in a great measure deserves the higliest encomiums that have been 
passed upon it. If anything on earth deserves the name of rapture or 
transport, it is the feelings of green eiglitecn in the company of the 
mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return of 
affection. 

A 11 ^ml. 

There is certainly some connexion between love and music nnd poetry; 
and, therefoie, 1 have always thought it a fine toucii of nature, that pas- 
sage in a modern love-composition : — 

" As towards her cot he jogged along. 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turn- 
ing poet till 1 got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were 
ina manner the spontaneous language of my heart. The following com- 
position was tiie first of my performances, and done at an early period 
of my life, wlien my heart glowed with honest warm simplicity; un- 
acquainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The per- 
formance is, indeed, very puerile and silly; but I am always pleased with 
it, as it recalls to my mind tiiose happy days when my heart was yet 
honest, and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it was a young girM 
who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her. I not only 
had tills opinion of her then — but I actually think so still, now that the 
spell is long since broken, and the charm at an end: — 

once 1 lov'd .1 bonnie hiss. {Page 232.) 

Lest my works should be thought below criticism ; or meet with a 
critic who, perhaps, will not look on them with so candid and tavt)urablc 
an eye; I am determined to criticise them myself. 

The first distich of the first stanza is quite too much in the flimsy 
strain of our ordinary street ballads; and, on the other hand, the second 
distich is too much in the other extreme. The expression is a little 
awkward, and the sentiment too serious. Stanza the second I am well 
pleased with ; and 1 think it conveys a fine idea of that amiable part of the 

1 " Handsome Nell," — Nelly Kirkp.Urick, his first sweetheart. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 293 

sex — the agreeables ; or what in our Scotch dialect we call a sweet sonsy 
lass. The third stanza has a little of the flimsy turn in it ; and the third 
line has rattier too serious a cast. The fourth stanza is a very indiBcrcnt 
one ; the first line is, indeed, all in the strain of the second stanza, but 
tlie rest is mostly expletive. The tlioughts in the fifth stanza come finely 
up to my favourite idea — a sweet sonsy lass : the last line, however, halts a 
little. The same sentiments are kept up with equal spirit and tenderness 
in the sixtli stanza; but the second and fourth lines ending with short 
syllables hurt tiie whole. The seventh stanza has several minute faults; 
but 1 remember I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to 
this hour I never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies at the 
remembrance. 

Sr/>tciiibcr. 

I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his 
excellent Theory of i\Ioral Sentiments, tliat remorse is the most painful 
sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of 
fortitude may bear up tolerably well under those calamities in the pro- 
curement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our own 
follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with 
manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sen.se of 
our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our pence, 
Tliat press the soul, or wring the niiud with anguish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt wc owe. 
In every other circumstance the mind 
Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine; " 
But when to all the evil of inisfortiuie 
This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self; " 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse; 
The torturing, gnawing, consciousness of guilt — 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 
' Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin! 

O burning hell! in all thy store of torments 
There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 
O happy! happy! enviable man! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul! 

March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human life, 
that every man, even the worst, has something good about him; though 
very often nothing else than a happy temperament of constitution inclining 
him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in what 
degree any other person, besides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any of the strictest character for regularity of conduct 
among us, examine impartially how many vices he has never been guilty 
of, not from any care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some 



294 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

acxidental circumstance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of 
mankind he has escaped, because he was out of the line of such tempta- 
tion ; and, what often, if not alwiys, weighs more than all the rest, how 
much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does 
not know all : I say, any man who can thus think, will scan the failings, 
nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind com- 
monly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes fartiier 
tiian was consistent with the safety of my character; those who, by 
thouglitless prodigality or headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin. 
Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes stained with guilt, I have yet 
found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues, 
magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty. 

April. 

As 1 am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would 
call a whimsical mortal, I have various sources of pleasure and enjoy- 
ment, which are in a manner peculiar to myself, or some here and there 
such other out-of-the-way person Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in 
the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, i believe, may 
be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast : 
but there is something even in the 

" Mishty tempest, and the hoary waste, 

Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er tlie buried earth," — 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to everything 
great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I 
do not know if I should call it pleasure — but something which exalts me, 
something which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of a 
wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy 
wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best 
season for devotion: my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to 
Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, "walks on the 
wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of mis- 
fortunes, I composed the following: — 

The wintry west extends his blast. {Page 61.) 

Shenstone finely observes, that love verses, writ without any real 
passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits; and I have often tliought 
that no man can be a proper critic of love-composition, except he himself, 
in one or more instances, have been a warm votary of this passion. "As I 
have been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have been led into a 
thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason I put the more 
confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing foppery and conceit from 
real passion and nature. Whether the 'following song will stand the test, 
I will not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only I can say it was, at 
the time, genuine from the heart: — 

Beliind yon hills, &c. {.Page 223.) 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 295 



March, 17S4. 

There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke by 
repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, the 
utter ruin of my tortune. My body, too, was attacl'Ccd by that most 
dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy, la this 
wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung 
my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of 
which I composed the following: — 

O thou Great Heing! what thou art. {Page 68.) 

April. 

The following song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versi- 
fication ; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for 
that reason 1 have a particular pleasure in conning it over: — 

My father was a farmer upou the Carrick border. 

{Page 238.) 

April. 
I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough 
divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the ,4';777't' and the fnerry ; 
though, by the by, these terms do not with propriety enough express my 
ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are 
goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make 
a figure in the world. The merry arc the men of pleasiu'e of all denomi- 
nations ; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any 
settled rule of action; but, without much deliberation, follow the strong 
impulses of nature: the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent — in par- 
ticular he who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful 
vacancy of thought, steals through life — generally, indeed, in poverty and 
obscurity; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit 
gravely down and make a repining comparison between his own situa- 
tion and that of others ; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such are, gene- 
rally,'those whose heads arc capable of all the towerings of genius, and 
whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 

A iigiisi. 

The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the 
various species of men ; but as I cannot please myself in the arrangement 
of my ideas. I must wait till farther experience and nicer observation 
throw more light on the subject. — In the meantime I shall set down the 
following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language of my heart, will 
enable anybody to determine which of the classes I belong to : — 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 

In ev'ry hour tliat passes, O. (.Page 223.) 

As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that 
Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that rendeis life 
delightful ; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow- 
creatures ; th.^t so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit 



2q6 THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 

members for that society of the pious and the ,e;ood wliicli reason and 
revelation teacli us to expect beyond tlie j;rave, I do not see that the tiun 
of mind and pursuits of sueli an one as tlie ai)ove verses deseril.)e — one who 
speiuhi the liours and thouijiUs vvhieii the vocations of llie (hiy can sparj 
willi Ossian, Shaisspeare, Thomson, Slienstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the 
ma,<iii;ot takes liim. a i^un, a tidtlle, or a som; to make or mend ; and at 
all times some hearl's-dear bonnie lass in view — I say I do not see tiiat 
the turn of mind and pursuits of sucii an one are in the least more inimical 
to the sacred interv'sts of piety and virtue, than the even lawful bustling 
and straininjj; after the wo'"lcrs riches and lumours : and 1 do not see but 
he may jj;ain iieaven as well — which, by the by. is no mean consideration 
-who steals through the vale of life, anuisiiiL;; himself with every little 
flower that fortune throws in his way, as lie who, straining straight for- 
ward, and perhaps l)esi)atlering all al)out iiini, gains some of life's little 
eminences, where, aftei' all, he can only see and be seen a little nu)re con- 
spicuously than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, 
indolent ile\il lie has K'ft behiiul liim. 

A Prayer, when funting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy 
or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, Hrst 
put nature on the alarm : - 

(> I'hiu inikiiowu, .\liiii;;lily C";\usc 
( )r.ill my liojio ;iiul Icii I (/'f'iV «'•) 

Misgivings in th(> lunu- of desi)ondency and prospect ot death : —v 

Why .1111 1 lolli to leave this earthly :aciu'? (./'.'.i,''' <'7-) 

I'XiorisMs rnoM mv ow\ si'.NSArioNs. 

.U,n. [.78.,?!. 

I don't well know what is the reason of it. but somehow or other, though 
I am, when 1 h.ive a mind, pretty generally beloved, yet I never could get 
the art of commanding respect: I imagine it is owing to my being 
delicieut in what Sterne calls "that miderstrapping virtue of discretion." 
I am so ajit to a Id/tsits l/m^itcr, that I sometimes think the cliaracter of 
a certain great man 1 have read of somewhere is very much ii-pro/).>s to 
myself — that he was a compound of great talents and great folly. — N.B. 
To try if 1 c.tn discover the causes of this wretchetl iniirmity, and. if 
possible, to nu'ud it. 

[ilcie follow tin- soiiij 7//,,' ,;•//,•/ /•;,/,. shoiiLi I'iJ i/s part, paj^jc 214; the 
fr.ij^mciit One night as I did itnindcr, ]>age 242; There ivus a hid Tens l>orn in 
Kyle, page 2j6; Elegy on the death of Robert Riiisscanx, jiage 124.] 

However, I am i)least'd with the works of our Scotch poets, particularly 
the excellent Ramsav, and the still more excellent Kergusson, yet I am 
hurt to .see other placi-s of Scotlaiul, their towns, rivers, woods, haughs, 
tStc, imnuirtali/.ed in such celebrated performances, while my dear native 
country, the ancient bailieries of Canick, Kyle, and Cunningham, famous 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 297 

botli in ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlii<e race of inhab- 
itants; a country wlicre civil, and particularly religious liberty have ever 
found their first support, and their last asylum ; a country, the birth-place 
of many famous philosophers, soldiers, and statesmen, and the scene of 
many imp(Mtant events recorded in Scottish history, particularly a great 
many of the actions of the glorious Wallace, the saviour of his cor"try; 
yet, we never have had one Scotch poet of any eminence, to make the 
fertile banks of b'vine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes 
on Ayr, and the heathy mountainous source and winding sweep of Doon, 
emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a complaint I would 
gladly remedy, but, alas! I am far unequal to the task, both in native 
genius and education. Obscure 1 am, and obscure I must be, though 
no young poet, nor young soldier's heart, ever beat more fondly for fame 
than mine : — 

" And if there is no other scene of being 
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill, 
This somethinjj at my lieart that heaves for room, 
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain." 



A Fragment - 



When first I came to Stewart Kyle. {Page 239.) 



August. 



September. 



There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch songs, a redundancy of 
syllables with resjiect to that exactness of accent and measure that the 
English ])oetry requires, but which glides in, most melodiously, with the 
respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the line okl song of 
"The Mill, Mill, O," to give it a plain, prosaic reading, it halts prodi- 
giously out of measure ; on the other hand, the song set to the same tune 
in 15remner\s collection of Scotch songs, which begins, " To Fanny f;iir 
could I impart," ivc. it is most exact measure: and yet, let them both be 
sung before a real critic, one above the biases of prejudices, but a thorough 
judge of nature, — how flat and spiritless will tlie last ai)pear, how trite, 
antl lamely methodical, com|)ared with the wild-warbling cadence, the 
heart-moving melody of the first! This is particularly the case with all 
those airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. There is a degree of 
wild irreguhirily in many of the comi)ositions and fragments which are 
daily sung i:o them by my compeers, the common ])eople — a certain happy 
arrangement of old Scotch syllables, and yet, very frequently, nothing, 
not even like rhyme, or sameness of jingle, at the end of the lines. This 
has made me sometimes imagine that perhaps it might be i)ossible for a 
Scotch ]>oet. with a nice judicious ear, to set compositions to many of our 
most fivourite airs, particularly that class of them mentioned above, 
independent of rhyme altogether. 

There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our 
ancient ballads, which show them to be. the work of a masterly haml : and 
it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such glorious old 



298 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



bards — bards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, 
yet have described tiie exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, 
and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — that their very 
names (oh how mortifying to a bard\s vanity !) are now " buried among 
the wreck of tilings which were." 

O -(g-e illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly and 
describe so well: the last, the meanest of the iMiises' train — one who, 
though far inferior to your fligiits, yet eyes your path, and with trembling 
wing would sometimes soar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, pays 
this sympathetic pang to your memory! Some of you tell us, with all the 
charms of verse, that you iiavc been unfortunate in the world — unfortunate 
in love: he, too, has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, 
and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like you, all his 
consolation was his Muse : she taught him in rustic measures to com- 
plain. Happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination 
and How of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and may you 
now enjoy that solace and rest which this world rarely gives to the heart 
tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! 

September. 
[Here follows the song on Aloiilgoinerie' s Peggy, page 240.] 

There is a fragment in imitation of an old Scotch song, well known 
among the country ingle sides. I cannot tell the name, neither of the 
song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison with one another. By the 
way, these old Scottish airs are so nobly sentimental, that when one wou'd 
compose to them, to "south the tune," as our Scotch phrase is, over and 
over, is the readiest way to catch the inspiration, and raise the bard into 
that glorious enthusiasm so strongly characteristic of our old Scotch 
poetry. I shall here set down one verse of the piece mentioned above, 
both to mark the song and tune I mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to 
the author, as the repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a 
thousand times : — 

Wlien clouds in sl<ics do come together — 

To hide the brightness of the weather, 
There will surely be some ple.isant weather 

When a' their storms are past and gone.' 

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, 

She promised fair and perfonu'd but ill; 
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bcreav'd me, — 

Yet 1 bear a heart shall support me still. .s 

I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able; 

But if success I must never find, 
Then come misfortune, 1 bid thee welcome, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 

The above was an e.vtcmpore, under the pressure of a heavy train of 
misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was 
just at the close of that dreadful period mentioned already ; and though 

• Alluding to the misfortiuies he feelingly laments before this verse. [ This is the author's note. [ 



THE LETTERS OF BURN'S. 299 

the weather has brightened up a little with me, yet there has always been 
since a tempest brcwiMg round me in tlie grim sky of futurity, wliich I 
pretty plainly see will some time or otlier, periiaps ere long, overwiiehn 
me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, scjualid 
wrclohedncss. — However, as I hoi)e my poor country Muse, wiio, all rustic, 
awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more charms for me tlian any 
other of tiie pleasures of life beside — as I hope siie will not tlien desert 
me. 1 may even then learn to be, if not happy, at least easy, and soutli a 
sang lo soollie my misery. 

'Twas at tiie same lime 1 set about composing an air in the old Scotch 
style. 1 am not musical scholar enough to prick down my tui\e properly, 
so' it can never see the lighU and perhaps 'lis no great matter; but the 
following were the verses I composed to suit it: — 

O inijinjj fortimc's withering blast 

Has laiU my leaf full low, O! {Page 240.) 

The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went 
througli the whole air. 

October 1785. 

If ever any voung man, in the veslibule of the world, cliance to throw 
his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following 
observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil's deai- 
bought experience. I have literally, like that great poet and great gallant, 
and by consequence that great fool, Solomon, "turned my eyes to beholc/ 
madness and folly." Nay, I have, with all the ardour of a lively, fanciful, 
and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic 
heart, shaken hands with their into-\icaling friendship. 

In the fust i)lace, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a 
regular, warm intercourse with the Deity. 



No. VTIT. 

TO MR. J.\M1<:S i;URNES, 

win riCK, MDNruosK,. 

[James Burncs w.is Robert's cousin, the sun of his futhor's elder brother, and 
grandfutlier of Sir .Mcx. Buriies, of .'Vfghan fame] 

DkAR Sir, Tucim.ka, -ast June, 178;. 

IVly father received your favour of the lolh current; and as he 
has been for some months very jjoorly in '.eallh, and is in his own 
opinion (and, indeed, in almost everybody's else) in a dying condition, he 
has only, with great ditliculty. written a few farewell lines to each of his 
brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold the pen for him 
to thank you for your kind leUer, and to assure you. Sir, that it shall not 
be my fault if my father's correspondence in the north die with him. My 
brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news 
of our family. 



300 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

I shall only trouble 3'ou with a few particulars relative to the wretched 
state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high ; oatmeal 17 d. 
and lod. per peck, and not to be got even at that pric;. We have indeed 
been pretty well supplied with quantities of white })eas froni England and 
elsewhere, but that resource is likely to fail us, and what will become of 
us then, particularly the very poorest sort. Heaven only knows. This 
country, till of late, was nourishing incredibly in the manufacture of silk, 
lawn, and carpet weaving ; and we are still carrying on a good deal in 
that way, but mucii reduced tVom what it was. We liad aL'o a fine trade 
in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a 
starving condition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb 
witli us. Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren; and 
our landholders, full of ideas of farming gathered from the English and 
the Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for the 
odds of the quality of land, and consequently stretch us much beyond 
what in the event we will be found able to j^ay. We are also much at a loss 
for want of proper methods in our improvements of flirming. Necessity 
compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us have opportunities 
of being well informed in new ones. In short, my dear Sn-, since the 
unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate con- 
clusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even ia 
higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noblemen, and the major part of our 
knights and squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas. 
Heron, & Co.'s bank, which no doubt you heard of, has undone num- 
bers of them ; and imitating English and French, and other foreign 
luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as many more. There is a great trade 
of smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive to 
the interests of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, 
Dut too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables indi- 
viduals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, 
as is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is 
generally even with them at last: and happy were it for numbers of 
them if she would leave them no worse than when she found them. 

My mother sends you a small present of a cheese ; 'tis but a very little 
one, as our last year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any corre- 
spondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would send you a proper one in 
the season. Mrs. lllack promises to take the cheese under her care so 
far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier. 

I shall conclude tliis long letter with assuring you that 1 shall be very 
hai)|)y to hear from you, or any of our friends in your country,^ when 
opi)ortunity serves. 

My father sends you, probably for the last time in this v/orld, his 
warnv'st wishes for your welfare and hai)piness ; and my mother and the 
rest of the family desire to enclose their kind compliments to you, Mrs. 
liurness, and the rest of your family, along with those of. 

Dear Sir, 
Your affectionate Cousin, 

R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 30 1 



No. IX. 

TO THE SAME. 

[William Burnes died on the 13th February, 1784. On his deathbed he owned 
♦.here was one of his family for whose future he feared, and Robert being then 
alone in the room with his father and sister (Mrs. 15egg) asked, "Oh, father, is it 
me you mean?" The old man said it was; and Robert, turning to the window, 
burst into tears. William Burnes lies buried in Alloway Kirkyarti. On the small 
headstone over his grave are some lines by his son, lamenting his loss, and com- 
memorating his virtues.] 

Dear Cousin, Lochlea, 17M February., 1784. 

I would have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of 
tlie I3lh Dec. .sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an account 
of that melancholy event whicli, for some time past, we have from day to 
day expected. 

On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Thongli, to be .sure, we 
had long warning of the imi^ending stroke, still the feelings of nature 
claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments and 
parental le.ssons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors, without 
feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly condemn. 

I hope my father's friends in your country will not let their connexion 
in this place die with him. For my part 1 shall ever witii pleasure, with 
pride, acknowledge my connexion witii those who were allied by the ties 
of blood and friendship to a man whose memory 1 shall ever honour and 
revere. . . . 

No. X. 

TO THE SAME. 

[This letter, it will be observed, is dated from Mossgiel, whither, on Mr. Burnes' 
death, the family removed from Lochlea. The old man's affairs were in a very 
embarrassed condition, and his two sons and two grown daughters had to rank as 
creditors of their father fur arrears of wages in order to save part of the Lochlea 
stocking for their new venture. " Mossgiel," says Oilbert Burns, " was stocked by 
the jiroperly and individual savings of the whole family, and was a joint concern 
among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the 
labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance and mine were /y per 
annum each. And during the whole time this fauiilv concern lasted, which was 
four years, as well as during the preceding period at Lochlea, his expenses never 
in any one year exceeded liis slender income."] 

MoSSCJIKL, August, 1784. 

We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phe- 
nomena in the moral world which. I dare say, has happened in the course 
of this half century. We have had a party of Presbytery Relief, as they call 
themselves, for some time in this country. A \i\\-\.\y thriving society of 
them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till about two 



302 THE LETTERS OF BURXS. 

years ago, a Mrs. Buchan,' from Glasgow, came among them and began to 
spread some fanatical notions of religion among tliem, and, in a short 
time, made many converts ; and among others their preacher. Mr. White, 
who upon that account has been suspended and formally deposed by his 
brethren. He continued, however, to preach in private to his party, and 
was supported, both he and tiieir spiritual mother, as tliey afiect to call 
old Buchan, by the contributions of the rest, sevei^al of whom were in 
good circumstances ; till, in spring last, the populace rose and mobbed 
Mrs. Buchan and put her out of the town; on which, all her followers 
voluntarily quitted t!ie place likewise, and with such precipitation, that 
many of tlieni never shut their doors behind them : one left a washing on 
the green, another a cow bellowing at the crib witiiout food, or anybody 
to mind her; and after several stages, they are fixed at present in the 
neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their tenets are a strange jumble of en- 
thusiastic jargon ; among otiiers, she pretends to give them the Holy 
Ghost by breathing on tliem, which she does with postures and practices 
that are scandalously indecent ; they have likewise disposed of all their 
effects, and hold a community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carry- 
ing on a great farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, where 
they lodge and lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, 
as it is another of their tenets that they can commit no moral sin. I am 
personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the 
above mentioned are facts. 

This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of leaving 
the guidance of sound reason and common-sense in matters of religion. 

Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred monitors, the whimsical 
notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the immediate influences of 
the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdities, 
will meet with abettors and converts. Nay, I have often thought, that the 
more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies are, if once they are sancti- 
fied under the sacred name of religion, the unhappy mistaken votaries 
are the more firmly glued to them. — R. B. 

' AlUn Cunningham gives the following interesting note on Mrs. Buchan and her followers: — 
" The Buchanites were asniall community of enthusiasts, who believed the time to be at hand when 
there would neither be marriage nor giving in marriage — when the ground, instead of thistles and 
heather, would yield spontaneously the finest fruits — when all things imder the sun would be in 
common — and 'Our Lady,' so they called Mrs. Buchan, reign spiritual queen of the earth. 
At first they held the doctrine of immediate translation, but a night spent in wild prayer, wild 
song, and wilder sermons on the top of a cold hill rebuked this part of their belief, but strength- 
ened them in the opinion regarding their empire on earth; and confirmed ' Oiu' l.ady' in the 
resolution of making a tour through her imaginary dominions. She accordingly moved ■towards 
Nithsdale with all her people — some were in carts, some were on horseback, and not a few on foot 
She rode in front upon a white pony; and often halted to lecture them upon the lovtlincss of the 
land, and to cheer them with food from what she called her ' Garner of mercy," and with drink 
from a large cup called ' The comforter." She addressed all people as she passed along with 
nuich mildness, and spoke to them in the language of their callings. 'James Macleish," she said 
to a gardener, who went to see her, ' quit Mr. Copland's garden, and come and work in that of the 
Lord.' — ' Thank ye," answered James, ' but he was na owre kind to the last gardener he had." 
' Our Lady ' died at Auchengibard-hill in Galloway, and her followers were dispersed. A few of 
the more resolute believers took a farm; the women spun and made large qu.intities of linen; the 
men ploughed and sowed, and made articles of turnery: their lives were inonensive and their 
manners gentle: they are now all dead and gone." Au interesting History of the Buchanites has 
been written by Mr. Joseph Train. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 303 



No. XI. 
TO MISS — 



[This and the following letter may be assigned to 1 784-5.] 

My dear Countrywoman, 

I am .so impatient to .show you that I am once more at peace with 
you, that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait the 
uncertain time of my .seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost 
Collins' Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I 
will forward them by you ; if not, you must apologize for me. 

I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you to- 
gether have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has 
been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof against the 
fascinating witchcraft ; but I am afraid you will " feelingly convince me 
what I am." 1 say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the matter 
with me. I have one miserable bad .sympton ; when you whisper, or look 
kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of 
wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though what I 
would say. Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have no 
formed design in all this ; but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write 
you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give yourself 
airs of distance on this, and that will completely cure me ; but I wish you 
would not : just let us meet, if you please, in the old beaten way of 
friendship. 

I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase, I 
think, at least fifty miles oft" from my heart; but I will conclude with sin- 
cerely wishing that the Great Protector of innocence may shield you 
from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert snare 
of deceit. — R. B. 

No. XII. 

TO MISS KENNEDY OF DALGARROCK. 

[Miss Margaret Kennedy, the young lady to whom this letter and the enclosed 
song (" Young Peggy ") were addressed, was the heroine of a melancholy story of 
betrayed love and cruel desertion: although now only seventeen years of age, the 
fatal intrigue with Captain M'Dowall of Logan had commenced; but, of course, 
nothing was suspected by any one at this time. Miss Kennedy's case furnished 
the theme for the affecting song, " Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon."J 

Madam, 

Permit me to present you with the enclosed song, as a small though 
grateful tribute for the honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your portrait in the unembellished 
manner of descrijitive truth. Flattery I leave to your lovers, whose 
exaggerating fancies may make them imagine you still nearer perfection 
tiian you really are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers of iseauty ; 



304 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



as, if they are really poets of Nature's making, their feelings must be 
finer, and their taste more delicate, than most of the world. In the 
clieerful bloo'n of si'KiNG, or the pensive mildness of autumn, the 
grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty of winter, the poet feels a 
charm unknown to the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, 
or the company of a fine woman (by far the finei;t part of God's works 
below), have sensations for the jjoetic heart that the herd of men are 
strangers to. On this last account. Madam, 1 am, as in many other things, 
indebted to Mr. H.'s kindness in introducing me to you. Ytnu" lovers may 
view you with a wish, 1 look on you with pleasure: their hearts, in your 
presence, may glow with desire, mine rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as incident to 
humanity, glance a slight wound, may never reach your heart, — that the 
snares of villainy may never beset you on the road of life, — that INNOCENCE 
may hand you by the path of honour to the dwelling of PEACE, — is the 
sincere wish of him who has the honour to be, &c. — R. B. 

[The song enclosed, " Young Peggy," will be found in page 35.] 

No. XIII. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, 

EDINIU'RGH. 

[John Richmond was an early friend of Rums' \vhcn clerk to the poet's patron 
and landlord, Mr. Gavin Hamilton, a Writer in Maucliline. Richmond was his 
companion in many a merry adventure at Mauchlinc, and afterwards received him 
in his lodging (ju his lirst arrival in Edinlnuj^h.J 

My dear Sir I\Io=;sgif.i., Fehrunry iTtfi, T7S6. 

I have not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and 
neglect ; I shall only .say I received yours with great pleasure. 1 have 
enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. 1 have been 
very busy with the IMuses since 1 saw you, and have composed, among 
several others, "The Ordination," a poem on Mr. M'Kinlay's being called 
to Kilmarnock; '-Scotch Drink," a poem; "The Cotter's Saturday Night ; " 
"An Address to the Devil," &c. I have likewise completed my poem on 
the " Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. My chief patron now is 
Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express great approbation of my 
works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel, and 1 will rennt 
you the money. 1 have no news to accjuaint you with about .Mauchline; 
thev are just going on in the old way. 1 have some very important^ news 
with respect to myself, not the most agreeable — news that I an\ sure you 
cannot guess, but I shall give you the particulars another time. I am 
extremely happy with Smith; he is the only friend I have now in Mauch- 
line. I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, and I beg you will 
let me hear from you regularly by Connel. If you would act your part as 
a friend, I am sure neither good nor bad fortune should strange or alter 
me. Excuse haste, as 1 got yours but yesterday. 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours, — R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 305 

No. XIV. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 

KILMARNOCK. 

[This is the last of the Poet's letters to which he has written his name 
Bui ness. Before this he had sometimes signed it as it now appears ; and 
as his poems were about to go to the press, he decided upon al)iding by 
BrRNs.] 

Dear Sir, Mossgiei., 20M March, 1786. 

I am Iieartily sorry I had not the pleasure of seein<j you as you 
returned through Mauchline ; but as I was engaged, I could not be in 
town before the evening. 

I here inclose you my " Scotch Drink," and " may the follow with 

a blessing for your edification." I hope, sometime before we hear the 
gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend 
we ?ball have a gill between us in a mutchkin-stoup ; which will be a great 
comfort and consolation to, 

Dear Sir, your humble Servant, 

Robert Burness. 

No. XV. 

TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 

ri5urns had issued proposals for publishing his poems. In a letter written in 
April, 1786, and supposed to be addressed to Mr. Ballantine of Ayr, he refers to 
the intended [lublication, and adds concerning his unhappy affair with Jean 
Armour — "Old Mr. Armour prevailed with him (Mr. Aiken) to mutilate that un- 
lucky |:)aperi yesterday. Would you believe it? — though I had not a hope, nor 
even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct, yet when he told me, the names 
were all out of the ]iaper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with 
the news." To David Brice, a shoemaker in Glasgow, Burns speaks more 
fully.] 

Dear Brice, Mossgiel, yunc 12M, 1786. 

I received your message by G. I'aterson, and as I am not very 
throng at jjresent, I just write to let you know that there is such a worth- 
less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the land of the 
living, thougli 1 can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no news to 
tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you to hear. 

Poor ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You 
have htard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What 
she tiiinks of her conduct now, I don't know; one thing I do know — she 
has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored, 
a woman more than I did her: and, to confess a truth between you and 

' This was of course the informal marriage contract he had signed with Jean. 



3o6 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



me, 1 do still love her to distraction after all, though I won't tell her so if 
I were to see her, which 1 don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate 
Jean! how hapj))' have I been in tliy arms! It is not the losing her that 
makes me so unhappy, but for her sake 1 feel most severely : I foresee she 
is in the road to, 1 am afraid, eternal ruin. 

May AlmigiUy (]od forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from 
my very soul forgive her ; and may His grace be vvitli her and bless her 
in all her future life! 1 can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal 
punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. I 
liave tried often to iorget her; I have run into ail kinds of dissipation and 
riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other mischief, to drive her 
out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure: the ship is 
on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, fai^eweil 
dear old Scotland ! and farewell dear ungrateful Jean ! for never, never 
will I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and 
to-morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of 
about two hundred pages— it is just the last foolish action 1 intend to do; 
and then turn a wise man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be, dear IJrice, 

Your Friend and Well-wisher, 

R. B. 



No. XVI. 
TO JOHN RICHMOND, 

EUINIU'KCUI. 



MossGiRi., 9M July, 1796. 



I have waited on Armour since her return home; not from the least 
view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health, and, to you I will 
confess it, from a foolish hankering fondness, very ill-placed indeed. The 
mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show that ])enitence that might 
have been expected. However, the priest, 1 am informed, will give me a 
certificate as a single man, if I comply with the rules of the Church, which 
for that very reason I intend to do. 

I am going to put on sackcloth and ashes this day. I am indul^d so 
far as to appear in my own seat. 

Pcccavi. pater; miserere inc. 

My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have an\' subscribers 
return them by Connell (the carrier). The Lord stand with the righteous. 
Amen, Amen ! 

R. li. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 3° 7 

No. XVII. 
TO MR. DAVID BRICE, 

SHOKMAKKK, GI,AS(;(i\V. 

Mossr.iEL, l^th 'July, 1786. 

I II.A.VE been so thron,^ printing my Poems, that I could .scarcely find 
as much time as to write to you, I'oor Armour is come back again to 
Mauchlinc, and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the 
house; nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done. 
I have already appeared puljliciy in church, and was indulged in the 
liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a 
bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. I am now fixed to go for 
the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that 
she should stand along willi me in the kirk, but the minister would not 
allow it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, and I am blamed as the 
cause of it, thougii I am sure I am innocent ; but I am very mucli pleased, 
for all that, not to have had her company. I have no news to tell you 
that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare, and that you 
are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly .see you before I leave the coun- 
try. I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am. 

Dear Brice, yours, 

R. B. 

No. XVIII. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

My dear RlCHMONn, Oi.d Rome Forest, so/A July, 1786.1 

My hour is now come — you and I will never meet in Britain more. 
I have orders, within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the 
*' Nancy," Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at Antigua. 
This, except to our friend .Smitii, whom God long preserve, is a secret 
about Mauchline. Would you believe it? Armour has got a warrant to 
throw me in jail till I find security for an enormous .sum. This they keep 
an entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of; and I am 
wandering from one friend's house to another, and, like a true .son of the 
Gospel, " have nowhere to lay my head." I know you will pour an exe- 
cration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake; 
though may all the furies tliat rend the injured, enraged lover's bosom, 
await her mother until her latest hour! I write in a moment of rage, re- 
flecting on my miserable situation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can 
write no more. Let me hear from you by the return of coach. 1 will 
write you ere I go. 

I am, dear .Sir, 

Yours, here and hereafter, 

K. B. 

' The Poet, when he wrote this letter, was skulking from Carrick to Kyle, 3"d from Kyle to 
Carrick : " Some ill-advlsej persons," he said, " ha<l uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at 
his heels." This was done, ho'vever, merely to gel him to quit the country. 



308 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

No. XIX. 
TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, 

M.VUCHI.INE. 
My DE.VR Sir RIonday morning, MossGiEL \AugHst, 1786]. 

I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the oppor- 
tunity of Captain Smith ; but I found tlie Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they deranged my plans altogether. They 
assure him that to send me from Savannah-la-Mar to Port Antonio 
will cost my master, Chas. Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds ; besides 
running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever in consequence 
of hard travelling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me 
with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of September, right 
for the place of my destination. The Captain of her is an intimate friend 
of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : with 
him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter I know not, but I hope 
to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them ! 
I know their worst, and am prepared to meet it : — 

" I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lang's 1 dow." 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be 
out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to Cum- 
nock. After all. Heaven bless the sex ! I feel there is still happiness for 
me among them : — 

" O woman, lovely woman! Heaven designed you 
To temper man ! — we had been brutes without you ! " 

R. B. 



No. XX. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[It was towards the end of July, 1786, that "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish 
Dialect, by Robert Burns," was published, and the following letter was written 
in the course of the next month.] 

My dear Sir, Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 

Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst, gave me much entertain- 
ment. I was sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your 
way, but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the i6th cur- 
rent, wlien I hope to have it in my power to call on you and take a kind, 
very probably a last adieu, before I go for Jamaica; and I expect orders 
to repair to Greenock every day. I have at last made my public appear- 
ance, and am solemnly inaugurated into the numerous class. Could I 
have got a carrier, you should have had a score of vouchers for my 
I Authorship ; but now you have them let them speak for themselves. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 309 



Farewell, dear Friend! may guid liicic hit you 
And 'mang her favourites admit you! 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 

May nane believe him! 
And ony de'il that thinks to pet you, 

Good Lord deceive him. 

R. B. 



No. XXI. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 

KILMARNOCK. 

My Friend, my Brother. Uai.%Q\'E.\., Friday noon [Sept. ?\. 

You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A very 
fine boy and a girl have awakened a thouolit and feelings tiiat thrill, some 
with tender pressure and some with foreboding anguish, through my soul. 

I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of this 
when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with a visit 
from, 

My dear Sir, 

Your most devoted, 

R. B. 

No. XXII. 
TO MR. BURNES, 

MONTROSE. 

My dear Sir Mossgiel, Sept. 26M, 1786. 

I this moment receive yours — receive it with the honest hospitable 
warmth of a friend's welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens always 
up the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections of 
my paternal friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that man is 
blest! 'Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of something 
within him above the trodden clod ! The grateful reverence to the hoary 
(earthly) author of his being — -the burning glow when he clasps the 
woman of his soul to his bosom — the tender yearnings of heart for the 
little angels to whom he has given existence — theoe nature has poured in 
milky streams about tiic hunian heart ; and the man who never rouses 
them to action, by the inspiring influences of their proper objects, loses 
by far the most pleasurable part of his existence. 

My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after harvest. 
I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not comply with 
your friendly invitation. 

R. B, 



3 1 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 

No. XXIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN. 

[To the suffering of remorse and humiliation which befell Burns through Jean 
Armour, was added, about this time, the bitter grief of learning Highland Mary's 
death.] 

5ll<^ AVRSWIRE \Oct.'\, 1786. 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other da}', and settled all our by- 
gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made 
him the otVer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of 
the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing 
about fit'tcen or sixteen : he olVcrs to agree to this for the printing, if I will 
advance for the paper, but this you know is out of my power ; so farewell 
hopes of a second edition till I grow richer ! an epocha which, I think, 
will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being disappointed of 
my second edition, as not iiaving it in my power to show my gratitude to 
Mr. Ballantinc, by publishing my poem of "The Brigs of Ayr." I would 
detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very long life 
of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with wliich he enters 
into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself in my grateful 
sensations ; but i believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as 
my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection ; but sheerly 
the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly 
ma.xims and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, re- 
specting the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the 
uncertainty of getting soon into business; the consequences of my follies, 
which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and 
besides I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from 
causes which you pretty well know — the pang of disappointment, the sting 
of pride, witli some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle 
on mv vitals like vultures, wlien attention is not called away by the calls 
of society, or the vagaries of the Muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, 
my ga\'ety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands ot 
the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to alhthesi' 
reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the 
present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in the 
scale against it. . . . 

You may perhaj^s think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment 
which strikes home to my very soul : though sceptical on some points of 
our current belief, yet, 1 think, I have every evidence for the reality of a 
life beyond tlie stinted bourne of our present existence ; if .so, then, how 
should 1, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Author of exist- 
ence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the 



THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 3 1 1 



dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smilint; innocency of 
helpless infancy? O Thou ^reat unknown Power! — Thou Almighty (iod! 
wlio hast lij^hted up reason in my !)reast, and blessed me with immortality ! 
— I have frec|uently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for 
the perfection of Thy works, yet Tiiou hast never left me nor forsaken 
me ! . . . 

Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of tlic storm 
of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my 
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me, perhaps 
it may not Ije in my power in that way to reap the fruit of your friendly 
eflbrts. What I have written in the preceding pages, is the settled tenor 
of my present resolution ; but should inimical circumstances forbid me 
closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it only threaten to entail farther 
misery . . . 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for com])laint; as the world, in 
general, has been kind to me fully u]) to my deserts. 1 was, for some time 
pist, fast getting into the ])ining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
s iw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of lite, slninking at every rising 
cloud in the chance-directed atmos|)here of fortune, while, all defenceless, 
I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least 
never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man, 
a creature destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however I might 
possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, was 
rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali- 
ties, there was something to be done. When all my schoolfellows and 
youthful compeers (those misguided few excei)ted who joined, to use a 
Gentoo jjhrase, the " hallachores" of the human race) were striking off 
with eager hope and earnest intent, in some one or other of the many 
paths of busy life, 1 was "standing idle in the market-place," or only left 
the chase of the butterfly from flower to (lower, to hunt fancy from whim 
to whim. . . . 

You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of mending 
them, I stand a fair chance: but, according to the reverend Westminster 
divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from 
always implying it. — R. B. 

No. XXIV. 
TO MR.S. DUNLOP 

OK DUNI.or. 

[While sufferiiitj fiom the (le])rcssi()n conse(|iient u]>()n a loiic; and painful sick- 
ness, Mrs. Ouiilnp liappencil to meet with the "(/uticr's Saturday Nif^lit," and was 
so stirred and dclii^lited witli il.that she at once despatched a niessenj^er to Moss- 
giel, some tifteen miles olf, witli a letter exi)ressinj; her admiration, and an order 
for half a dozen copies of the Kilmarnock editi(.)n of Burns' Poems.] 

Madam, AvKsmriK, 1736. 

I am trul)' sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much 
honoured with }our order for my copies, and incomparably more by the 



3 1 2 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am 
fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so ieolingly alive 
to the titilhitions of applause as the sons of Parnassus: nor is it easy to 
conceive iiow the heart of th;" poor bard dances with rapture, when those, 
whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour 
him with their approbation. Had you been thorouglily acquainted with 
me, Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ances- 
tor, the saviour of his country. 

" Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief! "• 

The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleas- 
ure, was "The Life of Hannibal;" the next was "The History of Sir 
William Wallace : " for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; 
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of 
the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with that part of 
Wallace's story where these Unes occur — 

" Syne to the Leglcn wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and 
walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with 
as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, as I ex- 
plored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman 
to liave lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart 
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure 
equal to his merits. — R. B. 

No. XXV. 
TO MRS. STEWART 

OF STAIR. 

Madam, '786. 

The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me 
from performing my promise so soon as 1 intended. 1 have here sent you 
a parcel of songs, \-c., which never made their appearance, except to a 
friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great entertain- 
ment to you, but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. The 
song to the tune of " Ettrick Banks"' [The Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle] 
you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. 
I think, myself, it has some merit : botli as a tolerable description of one 
of nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening; and one of the finest pieces of 
nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know an\lhing of, an amiable, 
beautiful young woman;- but I have no common friend to procure me 
that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. 

1 Mrs. Dunlop, a daughter of Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigic, was descended from the brother 
of the hero. 

■■^ Miss Alexander. 



THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 3 1 3 

I am quite aware, Madam, what t3sk the world would assign me in this 
letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend to take 
notice of him, should heap tiie altar with the incense of flattery. Their 
high ancestry, their own great and god-like qualities and actions, should 
be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a 
task for which I am altogetiier unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying 
pride of heart, I know nothing of your connexions in life, and have no 
access to where your real character is to be found — the company of your 
compeers : and more, I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is 
by no means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure remem- 
ber ; — the reception I got when I had the honour of waiting on you at 
Stair. 1 I am little acquainted with politeness, but I know a good deal of 
benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely did those in ex- 
alted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their infe- 
riors by condescension and affability, they would never stand so high, 
measuring out with every look the height of their elevation, but condescend 
as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. — R. B. 



No. XXVI. 
TO DR. MACKENZIE, 

MAUCHI.INE, 
INCLOSING HIM VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAER. 

[Of this meeting, which took place at Dugald .Stewart's summer lodgings at 
Catiine, a few miles from Mossgiel, the Professor has left the following account : — 
" His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and 
independent; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, hut without any- 
thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, and vanity. He took his share in con- 
versation, but not more than belonged to him; and listened with apparent atten- 
tion and deference on subjects where his want of education deprived him of the 
means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accom- 
modation in his temper, he would, I think, have been still more interesting; but 
he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance, 
and his dread of anything approaching to meanness and servility rendered his 
manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable 
among his various attainments than the fluency, and precision, and originality of 
his language when he spoke in company, more particularly as he aimed at purity 
in his turn of expression, and avoided more successfully than most Scotchmen the 
peculiarities of Scottish phraseology."] 

Dear Sir, Monday }>wrning\Oct.^. 

I never spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure 
as when, in company with you, 1 had the honour of paying my devoirs to 

' Burns had accompanied a friend on a courting expedition to Mrs. Stewart's house, and the 
report of his genial humour and poetical powers having reached the parlour from the servants' 
room, Burns was invited to an interview with the lady of the house. 



714 THE LETTEKS OF Py URNS. 



that plain, honest, worthy man, the Professor [Dugald Stewart]. I would 
bo delijihtccl to see him [XMtorm acts of kindmss ami frii'iulsiup, th()iiy;h I 
were not tlio object ; he docs it witli such a ,u;raco. 1 tliiiik liis ciiaractor. 
divided into ten parts, st.inds thus — lour parts Socrates - four i^arts Na- 
thaniel — and two parts Sliakspcare's Brutus. 

The lorenoing verses (see pai^e iii) were really extempore, but a little 
corredeil since. They may entertain you a little with tlie help of that 
partiality witli which you are so good as to favour the iH>rformances of 

Dear Sir, 
Your very iiumble Servant, 

R. IJ. 



No. XXVII. 

TO MISS ALKX.\NnKR. 

[lUirns, walkiiijT one evening in the jirivate groiuuls of Baliocliniyle, met Miss 
Wilhelmina Alexander, the laird's sister, who, surprised to see a stranger tliere, 
startetl and luurietl on. It was as an apology lor lliis intrusion tliat Burns coni- 
poseil tlie poem referred to in the following letter. Tlie laiiy's inteipretaliiin of 
its meaning was eoloured hy unfavoural)le reports v^i Hums' eharaeter, and neither 
letter nor poem was ever aeknuwledgeii. Miss Alexantier died in 1843, at the age 
of 88.] 

Madam, Mossc.if.i., iS/// .V(>t'<'w/'«v, 1786. 

Poets are such outrd beings, so much the children of wayward 
fancy and capricious whim, tliat 1 believe the world generally allows them 
a larger latitude in the laws of projiriety, tlian the sol)er sons of judgment 
and prudence. I mention this as an apology tor the liberties that a name- 
less stranger has taken with you in tiie inclosed poem, which he begs 
leave to present you witii. Wlicther it has poetical merit any way worthy 
of the theme, 1 am not the proi)er judge ; but it is the best my abilities 
can produce ; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior grace, 
it is equally sincere as fervent. 

The scenery was nearl)' taken from real life, though I dare say. Madam, 
you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic rn>etir 
as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in the 
favDurite haunts of my Mu.se, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nati^re in 
all the gaiety of tlie vernal vear. The evening sun was flaming over the 
distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crim.son opening- blossom, 
or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. 
I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring tiieir harmony on every 
hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my 
path, lest 1 shoulii disturb their little songs, or frigliten tliem to another 
station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, 
regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eve your 
elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rol) you of all the 
property nature gives you — your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 3 r 5 



Even the hoary hawthorn Iwiji; that shot across the way, what heart at 
Slid) a lime but must have Ix'i-ii iiUorcslcd in its welfare, and wished it 
jMi'scrvcd tVom the rudeiy-hrowsiiit;; lattie, oi' tiu; \vitiK'riii<ij eastern blast? 
Such was tin; scene, — and such the hour, wlien in a corner of my pros- 
pect, I spied t)ne of the fairest pieces of nature's worUmanship that ever 
crowned a poetic landscape or met a i)oet's eye, those visionary bards 
cxci'pted, who lioid commerce with aerial beings! Had Calumny and 
Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with 
sncii an ()i)jcct. 

VVIiat an hoin^ of inspiration foi' a jxx'l ! It would have raised plain 
dull historic jjrose into metaphor and measure. 

Tlie inclosed sonj; was tlie work of my return home; and jjcrhaps 
it but poorly answi;rs what mi^lit ha\e been I'xpected from such a 



scene. 



1 have liie honour to be. Madam, 

Your most obedient and very humble Servant, 



R. B. 



No. XXVITI. 

TO WILLIAM CIIAI.MKRS AND JOHN MrADAM. 

In ruK NAMK or iiik NlNl*',. .linen! 

Wl*., Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date 
the twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thousand .seven hundred 
and fifty-nine,' Poet Laureat, and Hard in Chief, in and over the districts 
and countries of Kyle, Cunniiii^ham, and Carrick. of old extent. To our 
trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and John McAdam, student 
practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confounding right 
and wrong. 

Right Trusty : 

Be it known unto you that whereas in the course of our care and 
watchings over the order and jjolice of all and sundry the manufacturers, 
retainers, and vendors of poesy; bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jin- 
glers, songsters, ballad-singers, &c. &c. &c. is:c. male and female — 
We have discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, and wicked song or 
ballad, a copy whereof We have here inclosed; Onr Will therefore is, 
that Ye pitcii ujjon and appoint the most execrable individual of tha'C 
most execrable species, known by the appellation, phrase, aiul nickname 
of The UeiPs Yell Nowte : '^ and after having caused him to kindle a tire 
at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day. put into the said 
wretch's merciless hands the said copy of the said ncfiriuus and wicked 

' His birthday. 

' " 'I'hc (icil's yell iiowlc," according to Gilbert Biinis, ii here used as .T scoffing ciuiIrI applic^ 
to slicrifTii' otTicvrs, and oilier executors of the law. 



3l6 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

song, to be consumed by tiro in the presence of all beholders, in abhor- 
rence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions and composers. And 
this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it executed in every point as this 
our mandate bears, before the twenty-fourth current, when in person we 
hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. 

Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of November, Anno Domini 
one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. 

God save t!ie Bard ! 



No. XXIX. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

[The Edinburgh expedition was undertaken in consequence of the following 
letter, writcn by the blind j^oet, Thonias Blacklock, to the Rev. Mr. Lavvrie, from 
whom it passed throuLjh Clavin Ilaniiltoii to Burns: — 

" I ouLjhl to liave acknowledgetl your favour long ago, not only as a testimony of 
your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of sharing one of tlie 
finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertaimnents, of which the human 
mind is susceptible. A numher of avocations retartleil my progress in reading the 
poems; at last, however, I have fhiished that pleasing perusal. Many instances 
have 1 seen of nature's force and beneficence, exertcil under numerous and formid- 
able disadvantages; but none equal to that \\ith wliich you have been kiiul enough 
to present me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his serit>us poems; a vein of wit 
and humour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
nor too warmly approved; and I think 1 shall never open the book without feeling 
my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish to have expressed my 
approbation in verse; but whether from declining life, or a temporary dejiressicm 
of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 
Mr. Stewart, Professor of morals in this University, had formerly read me three of 
the ]ioems, and I had ilesired him to get my name inserteil among the subscribers: 
but whether this was done or not I never could learn. I have little intercourse 
with I)r. Blair, but will take care to have the poems comnumicated to liim by the 
intervention t)f some mutual friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom 
I showed the performances, and who sought a copy with diligence anil ardour, that 
the whole impression is already exhausted. It were therefore much to be wished, 
for tlie sake of the young man, that a second edition, more numerous than the 
former, could immediately be printed; as it apjiears certain that its intrinsic iVierit, 
and tlie exertion ot the authur's fiiends, might give it a more universal circulation 
than anything of the kind which has been published within my memory."] 

My dear Sir, Mossgiei., iSM Novetuber, 1786. 

Inclosed you have " Tam Sarnson," as I intend to print him. I 
am thinking for my Edinburgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come 
se'nnight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday first. 

I am ever. 

Your much indebted, 

R. B. 



THE LE T TENS OF B URNS. 3 1 ^ 

No. XXX. 
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 

MAUCHLINK. 

[Burns reached Edinburgh on his first visit on the 28th November. Through 
Mr. iJalrympie, of Orangelicid, near Ayr, Hums was introduced to that gentleman's 
brother-in-law. Lord (Jiencairn, to the lion. Henry Erskine, and other influential 
people. Gavin Ilaniilton, a Writer in Mauchline, was one of Burns' chief patrons 
in Ayrshire.] 

Honoured Sir, Edindvrgh, Decf»tier yi/i, zjsa. 

I iiave paid every attention to your commands, but can only .say 
what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muirkirk- 
lands were bouj^ht by a John Gordon, W.S., but for whom I know not; 
Mauchlands, Haugh Mill, tkc, by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed 
to be for liallochmyle Laird, and Adam-hill and Shawood were bought 
for Oswald's folks. This is .so imperfect an account, and will be .so late 
ere it reach you, that were it not to discharge my con.science I would not 
trouble you with it ; but after all my diligence I could make it no sooner 
nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as 
Thomas i Kempis or John Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to 
see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events, in tiie Poor 
Robin's and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the Black Monday, and the 
battle of Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, 
Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing; and by all probability 
I shall soon be the tontli worthy, and the eighth wise man of the world. 
Through my Lord's influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian 
Hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition. 
My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of 
them next post. I have met, in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what 
Solomon emphatically calls "a friend that sticketh closer than a brother." 
The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of the same 
enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took 
notice of my earlier poetic days showed for the poor unlucky devil of a 
poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Mi.ss Kennedy in my poetic 
prayecs, but you both in prose and ver.se. 



May ciuld ne'er catch yoii but a hap, 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap! 
Amen 1 



R. B 



3l8 THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 

No. XXXI. 

TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ., OF ORANGEFIELD. 

Dear Sir, \Decembrr lo, 1786?! 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his succcsi. with you, that he 
is determined by a coup dc main to conii)lete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me — 
hummed over the rhymes — and as I saw tliey were e.xtempore, said to 
myself they were very well ; but when I saw at the bottom a name that I 
shall ever value with grateful respect, " I gapit wide, but naething spak." 
I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of artliction-bearing 
memorv, when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, and 
spake not a word. . . . 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast ; and as soon as my wonder- 
scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its tunctions, 
I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My forebotling 
ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and several events, great in tlieir 
magnitude, and important in their consecjuences, occurred to my tancy. 
The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the cork rumps — a ducal 
coronet to Lord George Gordon, and the Protestant interest, or St. Peter's 
keys to . 

Vou want to know how I come on. I am just in statu quo, or, not to 
insult a gentleman with my Latin, in " auld use and wont." The noble 
Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself in 
my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent being whose image he 
so richly bears. He is a stronger i)roof of the immortality of the soul 
than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can never die. 
Let the worshipful Sc[uire H. L., or the Reverend Mass J. M., go into 
their primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill-iligested luni[)s of 
chaos — only, one of them strongly tinged with bituminous p.uticles and 
sulphurous effluvia. Ikit my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of 
magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with 
princely eye at " the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the cruiih 
of worlds." — R. B. 



No. XXXIL 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ., 

BANKER, .WR. 

My HONOURED Friend, Edinburgh, 13M />cf?«/i«cr, 17S6. 

I would not write you till I could have it in my jiower to give you 

some account of myself and my matters, which by the by is often "no easy 

task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se'nnight, and have suffered ever 

since I caiiie to town with a miserable head-ache and stomach complaint, 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 3T9 

l)ut am now a good deal better. I have found a worthy warm friend in 
Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangcficld, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, 
a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me I shall remember 
wlien lime shall be no more. IJy his interest it is ]jassed in the "Caledo- 
nian Hunt," and entered in their bof(ks, tiiat they are to take each a 
copy of the second edition, for which they are to pay one guinea. — I have 
been introfluced to a good many of the noblesse, but my avowed patron.s 
and patronesses are, the Duchess of Gordon — the Countess of ("ilen- 
cairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty' — the Dean of Faculty — Sir John 
VVliitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among the literati: Pro- 
fessors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the Man of Feeling. An 
iffiknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire Bard with Mr. Siljbald, 
which I got. I since have discovered my generous unknown friend to be 
Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk; and drank a glass of 
claret with him by invitation at his own house yesternight. I am nearly 
agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on 
Monday. I will send a .sulwcription bill or two, next post ; when I intend 
writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is 
very well. 

Dugald .Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the periodi- 
cal pajier called the Lounger,''^ a copy of which 1 here inclose you. I was, 
Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure ; now I 
tremble lest I should be ruined l)y being dragged too suddenly into the 
glare of polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever-honoured patron, write you an account of my 
every step; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it 
something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle. 
I have the honour to be, 
Good .Sir, 
Your ever grateful humble Servant, 

R. B. 

' Lady BcUy Cunningham, sister of Lord Glencairn. 

- 'I'lic papc-r here alludci] to was written by Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated author of "The Man 
of Feeling." It recognizes in the yjoems "a genius of no ordinary rank," remarkable in itself 
without reference to the natural wonder excited by the fact that they were written by a man of 
such humble rank, without the advantages of a good education. " The power of genius," Mr. 
Mackenzie proceeds, "is not less admirable in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions 
or in drawing the scenery of nature. The intuitive glance with which a writer like Shakspeare 
discerns the characters of men, with which he catches the many changing hues of life, forms a sort 
of problem in the science of mind, of which it is easier to see the truth than to assign the cause. 
Though I am very far from meaning to compare our rustic bard to .Shakspeare, yet whoever will 

read his lighter and more humorous poems, his I)ialogue of the Oogs, his Dedication toO H , 

Ksq., his Kpistle to a Yoimg Friend, and to W .S , will perceive with what uncommon pene- 
tration afl?] sagacity this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered station, has 
looked upon men and things." Mackenzie then referred to the misfortunes which, as he had 
heard most probably from Dugald Stewart, had befallen the bard, and expressed a hope that 
some means might he found to provide for him in his native land. 



320 THE LETTERS OF BrK.VS. 



No. XXXIII. 

TO MR. RORKRT MUIR. 

RIy DE.VK Friend. kimmukoh. />Avw^«-r jo/a, 1786. 

I liave jvist time for tlie carrier, to tell you that I received your 
letter; of which 1 shall say no more but what a lass of my acquaintance 
said of her bastard wean; she said she "did na ken wlia was the father 
exactly, but she suspected it was some o' thae bonny bUicki»uard smugglers, 
for it w.is like them." So I only say your obliging epistle was like you. 
I inclose you a parcel of subscription bills. Your atfair of si.\ty copies«is 
also like you ; but it would not be like me to comply. 

Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of sketch- 
ing it in some future epistle to vou. Mv compliments to Charles and Mr. 
Parker. — R. B. 



No. XXXIV. 
TO MR. WILLI.VM CHAI.MKRS. 

WKrriiU, AYR. 
My DE.\R FrIENT) F.DiNi-.iKCH, Avf-wi*.-*- a;///, 1786. 

I confess 1 have sinned the sin for which there is haidly any for- 
giveness — ingratitude to friendship — in not writing you sooner; but of 
all men living, 1 had intended to have sent you an entertaining letter; and 
Dv all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited majesty, 
preside over the dull routine of business — a heavily solemn oath this! — 
1 am. and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, ;is unHt to write a 
letter of humour, as to write a commentary on the Revelation of St. John 
the Divine, who was banished to the Isle of I'atmos, by the cruel and 
bloodv Domitian. son to X'espasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and raised the second or third per- 
secution, 1 forget which, against the Christians, and after throwing the 
said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, commonly called James 
the Greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was, on some 
account or other, known bv the name of James the Less — after throwing 
him into a caldron of boiling oil, tVom which he was miraculously jiie- 
served, he banished the poor son of Zebeilee to a desert iskuul in the 
Archipehigo, where he w;is gifted with the second sight, and saw as many 
wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- 
stance not very uncommon in story-telling, brings me back to where 1 set 
out. 

To make vou some amends tor what, before you reach this ])aragrai)h, 
you will have suffered, I inclose }OU two poems 1 have caitleil and spun 
since I passed Glenbuck. 

One blank in the Address to Edinburgh — "Fair B ,'Ms heavenly 

Miss Burnet, dav\ghter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the 



THE LETTER."^ OF B URNS. 3 2 1 

honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like 
her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great 
Creator has ffirmed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 
My direction is — care of Andrew Jiruce, merchant, iiridge-street. 

K. B. 

No. XXXV. 
TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

MV Lord, EDiNntrROH, January, 1787. 

As 1 have but slender pretensions to philosophy, 1 cannot rise to 
the exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but have all those national pre- 
judices, which 1 Ijelieve glow jjcculiarly strong in the breast of a .Scotchman. 
There is scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly alive as the honour 
and welfare of my country: and as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment 
than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the 
veriest shades of life ; but never did a heart jxmt more ardently than mine 
to be distinguished ; though till very lately, 1 looked in vain on every side 
for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess how much I was gratifiefl with 
the countenance and a]jproijation of one of my country's most illustrious 
sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday on the part of your 
lordshij).' Your munificence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grate- 
ful acknowledgements ; but your patronage is a bounty jjeculiarly suited to 
my feelings. J am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know, 
whether there be not some imjjropriety in troubling your lordship with my 
thanks, but my heart whisjjered me to do it. From the emotions of my 
irunost soul 1 do it. Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of; and 
mercenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have so much honest pride as to 
detest. ^R. B. 

No. XXXVL 
TO JOHN I3ALLANTINE, ESQ. 

My IIONOURFJ) FkIK.VD, Edinburgh, "January 14, 1737. 

It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet 
so far gone as Willie (iaw's Skate, " i;ast redemption;"^ for I have still 
this favourable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as in the case 
of this letter, tells me I am leaving .something undone that I ought to do, 
it teazesjiie eternally till I do it. 

I am still "dark as was Chaos" in respect to futurity. My generous 
friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about the lease of 
.some farm or other in an estate called Dalswinton, which he has lately 
bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections whisper 
me that I will be hajjpier anywhere than in my old neighbourhood, but 

' Mr. Wauchope broiiKl'i liiin ten )»uineas as a subscription for two copies of his second edition. 
- 'J'liis is one of : great nmiilicr of old saws that Bums, when a laU, had piclted up from his 
mother, who had a vast collection of them. 



32 2 THE LETTERS OF BURKS. 

Mr. Miller is no judge of land; and though I dare say he means to favour 
me, yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain tiiat may 
ruin me. 1 am to take a tour by Dumfries as ] return, and have promised 
to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May. 

1 went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful r.niiul 
Master Cliartres, and all the (irand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meet- 
ing was numerous and elegant ; all tlie dilferent lodges about town were 
present, in all their pomp. The (/rand Master, who presided witli great 
solemnity and honor to himself as a gentleman and a mason, among otlier 
general toasts, gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Hard, Hrother Hums,'" 
which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and 
repeated acclamations. As I had no idea sucli a thing would happen, I 
was downright thunderstruck, and trembling in every nerve, made tlie best 
return in my power. Just as I liad finished, some of the grand officers 
said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, " W>ry 
well indeed !" which set me something to rights again. 

I have to-day corrected my I52d page. My best good wishes to Mr. 
Aiken. 

I am ever, dear Sir, 
Your much indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. XXXVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

Jaiiunry — , T787. 

While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a little 
countr>- inn, and drying my wet clotlies, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger, 
and tells me he is going to' Ayr. By heavens! .say I to myself, with a tide 
of good spirits which the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, conjured 
up,"l will send my last song to Mr. Ballantine. Here it is — 

Yc flowery banks o' bonnic Doon, 

How can yc bloom sae fair; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And 1 sae fu' o' care? 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 323 



No. XXXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[This is an acknowledgment of some extracts wliich Mrs. Dnnlop li.arl sent to 
lUirns from her correspondence with Dr. Moore, autlior of "Zeluco," iVc] 

MaD.VM iMiiNiiiiKcwi, 15M Jnniiary, 1787. 

Yours of llic 9th current, which I am this moment honoured with, 
is a deep rejjroach to me for un<;r;vleful neglect. I will tell you the real 
trulii, for 1 am miseraljly awkward at a fib — 1 wished to iiave written to 
Dr. Moore before I wrote to you; I)Ut though every day since I received 
yours of December ^otli, the idea, the wish to write to hmi has constantly 
pressed on my thouglits, yet I could not for my soul set about it. 1 know 
his fame and character, and I am one of "the sons of little men." To 
write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be 
disgracing the little cliaracter 1 have; and to write the author of "The 
View of Society and Manners" a letter of sentiment — I declare every 
artery runs cold at the fliought. I shall try, however, to write to him to- 
morrow or next day. His kind interposition in my ix'half I have already 
experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of 
Lord Egiinton, with ten guineas, by way of subscription for two copies 
of my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious 
countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- 
son ; but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. 1 distrusted my 
own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the oi)inion of 
some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical strictures, and 
tliey all allow it to be pro]>er. The song you ask I cannot recollect, and I 
have 'Uot a coi)y of it. I have not c()m|)osed anything on the great 
Wallace, except what you have seen in print; and the inclosed, which I 
will print in this edition.' You will see I have mentioned some others of 
the name. Wiien 1 composed my "Vision" long ago, I had attempted a 
description of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas arc a part, as it 
originally stood. My lieart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to 
the merits of the " saviour of his country," which sooner or later I shall at 
least attempt. 

You are afraitl I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet: 
alas! Madam, 1 know myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty; I am willing to believe that my aijilities 
dcserv*; some notice; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, 
when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite com- 
]riny — to be dragged forth to tiie fiill glare of learned and polite observa- 
tion, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude uniiolished 

' St;in/:is in tlic "Vision," licnimiiiiH " l!y stalely lower or pnliicc fair," .irul ending; willi tlic 
first Diian. I'lirns afterwards reiccted several of the new stanzas before senilini; the book to prubS- 
Those omitted were cliiefly panegyrics on country gentlefolk who had been kind to him. 



3=4 THE LETTERS OF BURXS. 



ideas on niv head — I assure you, Madam, I ili^ inU dissemble wlion I tell 
you 1 tron\blo tor llio consequences. 'I'lie novelty of a poet in my obscure 
situation, wiiliout any of those advantages which are reckoned necessary 
for that character, at least at this time of ihiy, has raiseil a jiartial tide of 
IJublic notice which has borne me to a height, where 1 am absolutely, 
feeling certain my al)ilities arc inadetiuate to support me ; ami too 
surely do 1 see that time when the same tide will leave mi. and recede, 
perhaps, as far below llie mark of truth. I do not say (his in the riiliculous 
ati'ectation oi self-abasement anil moilesly. 1 have stuilied myself, and 
know what ground 1 occupv ; and, however a friend or the worKl may 
dilfer from me in that pariicular. 1 staml for my own opinion, in silent 
resolve, with alt the tenaciousness (^i puipeitv. 1 mcutiou lliis to vou once 
for all tt> ilisluulluii my mind, ami 1 '\\.-\ not wish lo hear or .say more 
about it. but, 

" Wluii proml loiliiiic's obhiiii; tiiic itioJcs," 

you will bear me witness, that when my bubble (y\ tame was at tlie highest, 
1 stood unintoxic.ited. with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking tor- 
ward with luetul resolve to tlie hastening time, when the blow of (.".dumny 
should dash it to the grounil. witli ail the eagerness of vengeful tiiuniph. 

Your pationi/ing me ami interesting yourself in my tame and character 
as a poet, 1 rejoice in; it ex.dts me in my own idea; and whether you can 
or caimot aid me in my subscrijition is a tritie. Has a luliry subscription- 
bill anv charms to the he.irt of a bard, comp.ued with the p.Uion.ige of the 
descendant of the immortal Wallace.'* — R. 13. 



No. XXXIX. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

C^.j, liniNIH'KGIl, JiMiUitry [i^/Z/'T, 1787. 

Mrs. Dunlop lias been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she 
has hail from you. where you ilo the rustic bard the honour of noticing him 
anil his works. Those who have felt the an.vieties and solicitudes of 
authorship, cm onlv know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such a 
manner, by judges of the first char.icter. Your criticisms. Sir, 1 receive 
with reverence ; only I am sorry they mostly came too late : a pet,cant 
passage or two that 1 would c'ert.iinly have altered, were gone to the 
press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in bv far the greater jiart of those 
even who were authors of reiniie. an unsubstantial dre.im. For my part, 
my first ambitimi w.'s. and still my strongest wish is. to plea.se my com- 
peers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while evei-changing l.inguage and 
manners shall allow me \o be relislunl and understood. 1 am very willing 
to admit that 1 have .some poetical abilities: aiiil as few. if any, writers,^ 
either moral or poetical, are intimately ac(|u.iinted with the classes ot 
mankinil among whom 1 have chietly mingled, 1 m.iy have seen men and 
manners in a ditVerent phasis from what is common, which may assist 



THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 325 

orij^inality of thou;i:ht. Still I know very well the novelty of my rluractcr 
has by far tlie greatest sliare in the learnerl and polite notice 1 have lately 
had ; and in a laiij^uajie where I'ope and Churchill have raised the laugh, 
ai.d Shenstone and (iray drawn the tear; where Thomson and Beatlie 
have painted the landscape, and Lytlciton and Collins described the heart, 
I am not vain enough to hope for distingui.->hed poetic fame.' — K. B. 

No. XL. 
TCj IHK REV. O. LAWRIE. 

NEWMII.I.S, NI:AK KILMARNOCK. 

[Mr. Lawrie had written to Burns, urging him to visit Blacklock, the blind 
poet, and added a iv.^' kindly words of wariiiiig as to the temptations of the new 
life on wiiich the Poet had entered.] 

KliVKUF.ND ANIJ IJICAK SiK, V.n\>i\m\<o\i, February ith,^^'^^. 

When I look at the date of yoiir kind letter, my heart reproaches 
me severely with ingratitude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will not 
trouble you with any account by way of apology, (yf my hurried life and 
distracted attention : do me the justice to believe 2hat my delay by no 
means proceed(.'d from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel for you, 
the mingk'fl sentiments of esteem for a friend and reverence for a father. 

I tiiank yon, Sir, with all my soul for your friendly hints, though I do 
not need them so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled 
with newspaj^er accounts and distant reports; but in reality, I have no 
great temptation to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty 
may attract the attention of mankind awhile; to it 1 owe my present 
^clat ; ijut 1 see the time not far distant when the popular tide whFch has 
bcjrnd' ine to a height of which I am, perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with 
silent celerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my 
leisure to my foriner station. 1 do not say this in the affectation of 
modi.'sty ; I .see the consequence is unavoidable, and am prepared for it. 
I had been at a good deal of pains to form a just, impartial estimate of 
my intellectual powers before I came here; 1 have not added, since I 
came to I''dinburgh, anything to the account; and I trust I sliall take 
every atom (jf it back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed early 
years. 

In Dr. Hlacklock, whom I see very often, I have found what I would 
have (^xpected in our friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. 

' III hi« reply to (his letter dated Jan. 23rd, 1787, Dr. Moore says: — " If I may judge of the 
aiitlior's <lis|ji)Silioii frotn his works, with all the other good qualities of a poet, he has not the 
irritable temper asiirihwl to that race of men by one of their own numlier, whom you have the 
h.'ippincs!! to resemble in ease and curious felicity of expression. Indeed the poetical beauties, 
however orininal and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I admire in your works: the 
love of your native count/y, that feeling sensibility to all the objects of humanity, and the inde- 
pendent spirit which brrathes through the whole, give me a most favourable impression of the 
Poet, and have made me often regret that I did not see the (lOLms, the certain effect of which 
would have been my seeing the author, last summer, when I was longer in Scotland than I have 
been for many years." 



126 THE LETTERS OE PURA'S. 



\\\ far tlie most arreeable hours I spend in Edinburgh must be phiced 
to the account of INIiss Lawrie and her pianoforte. I cannot help re- 
pealing; to vou and Mrs. Lawrie a compliment tliat Mr. Mackenzie, the 
celebraled " ^hm of Feelinii," paitl to Miss Lawrie theotiier ni<;h(. at the 
concert. I li.ul come in at the interhule, and sat down hy him till 1 saw 
Miss Lawrie in a .seat not very distant, ami went up to pay my respects to 
her. t)n mv return to i\b\ Mackenzie, he asketl me wlio sh" was; I told 
liim 'twas the daughter of a revereml iViend of mine in the west country. 
He relurnctl, there w.is .somethinj;' very striking, to his iilea, in her appear- 
ance. t)n my desirinj; to know what it w.\s, he was pleased to say '• She 
has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bietl lady .ihout her, with .dl the 
sweet simplicitv of a country girl." 

My compliments to .dl the li.ipjiy inmates of St. M.ugaret's. — 1\. B. 



No. XLL 
TO DR. MOORE. 

SiK, l',oiNiu'Rr.n, Fi-bruitry \^th, 1787. 

TardoK my seeming neglect in delaying .so long to acknowledge 
the honour you liave tione me, in your kinil notice oi me, January 2jrd. 
IMot many months ago 1 knew no other employment than loliowing the 
plongli, nor could bo.ist anything higher than a distant accinaintance with 
a country gentleman. Mcie greatness never embarra.sses me; 1 have 
nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their juilgment ; but 
genius^ polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the 
eye of tiie world, this o\ late 1 frequently meet with, and trendile at its 
approach. 1 scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self- 
conceit. That \ have some merit I do not deny; but I see with frequent 
wringings of heart, that the iu>velt\ of my character, anil the honest 
national prejudice of mv countrymen, h.ive borne me tt> a height altogethei 
untenable to my ;dMlities. 

For the luinour Miss Williams h.is done me, please. Sir. return lier in 
my name my most gralet'ul thanks. I have more th.m once tlunighl of 
p;iving her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the itlea in hopeless de- 
sponiiencv. 1 h.ul never before heard of her; but tlie other day I got 
her Poems, which for .several reasons, some belonging to the headi and 
others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. 1 have 
little pretensions to critic lore; there are. I tiiink, two characteristic 
features in her poetry — ^the unfettered wild Hight of native genius, anil 
the querulous, sombre tenderness of " time-settled sorrow." 

I only know wli,\i [ileases me, ot"ten without being able to tell why.' 

k. H. 

' l~>r. Moore, wiitiiii; on ■-•Stli l'"elirii.-iry, says: — "You arc a great favourite in my family; 
and this is a liislier compliment than perhaps you are aware of. It incluiles almost all the profes- 
sions, and of i;ourse is a proof that your writinfi- are .adapted to various tastes and situations. My 
yocuii-csi son wlio is at Wim liosicr Sihool, writes to me that he is trunslaliu^ some stanzas of your 
' H tUowc'en" into Latin veise, for the beneht of his comrades." 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 327 



No. XLir. 

TO JOI[.\ JIAI.LANTINE, Esq. 

[The picture from wliich IJeugo engraved the portrait to which the Poet alludes, 
was painted by Aicxaniler Nasmyfh - — tlic work in each case Ijeiiij^ flone gratu- 
itously. 'I'lic engraving fias a more melancholy air than the picture, and is of a 
swarthier luic : this change xvas made by the engraver, who caused the I'oet to sit 
to iiim, and linished liie C(Jijper from his face, in preference t(j working from the 
picture.] 

Mv IIo.NOlIKKU FkIKNI), liwNiiuuGH, /''-"/'rwrtrj/ 24M, 1787. 

1 will soon be with you now, in guici black prcnt ; — in a week or 
ten day.s at farthest. I am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- 
.scribcrs' names ; so if any of my Ayr friends have suljscription bills, they 
must be sent int(j Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by an 
eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in time, 1 will appear in my book, 
looking like all o\.\\<ix fools to my title-page. — R. li. 

No. XI, III. 

Tfj TIIK KARL OF HLENCAIRN. 

My Lf)KlJ, EniNBURGH, 1787. 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your lordsliij), which 1 was told 
was to be got in town ; but 1 am truly sorry to see that a blundering 
painter has sjjoiled a " human face divine." The incloserl stanzas I 
mtended to have written below a picture or profile of your lordship, could 
1 have been so hai)py as to j^rocure one witii anything of a likeness. 

As 1 will .soon return to my shades, I wanted to have something like a 
material object for my gratitude; I wanted t'o have it in my power to say 
to a fr^iend, there is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. Allow me, 
my lord, to publish tiiese verses. I conjure your lordshii), by the honest 
throe of gratitude, Ijy the genercjus wisli of benevolence, by all the powers 
and feelings vvhicii com]jose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this 
petition. I owe much to your lordship; and, what has not in some other 
instances always been the case with me, the weight of tiie oI)ligation is a 
pleasing load. 1 trust I have a heart as inde]>endent -as your lordship's, 
than which I can .say nothing more ; and I would not be beholden to 
favours that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified character in life, 
and manner of supporting that character, are flattering to my pride ; and 
I woul^ be jealous of the purity of my grateful attachment, where 1 was 
under the patronage of one of the much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they 
were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country; allow me, then, 
my loifl, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world how 
much 1 have the honour to be, 

Your lordship's highly indebted. 

And ever grateful humble Servant, 

K. B. 



328 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. XLIV. 

TO THF, KARL OK laUHAN. 

[Tlic I'.arl of Buchan had advised Hums to seek inspiration for his imise in a 
pili^iimayc to tiie I'liicf battlo-licUls of Scotland, in tlie hope, it was suspected, that 

Aiuiiiiu Mum- and ius own tuniily uiii^lit ho iluly (.■clchralcd.J 

Mv I. OKI), 

i'lu' lu>iu>ur your lordsliip has done Tiie. by your notice and advice 
in youis of the 1st instant, 1 sludl ever gratefully remember: — 

" Praise from thy lips 'lis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most." 

\'our lordsjiip toutdios tlu' darlino chord of niv heart, when von advise 
me to ihe my muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. 1 wish for 
nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage through my native 
country ; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended fields, wliere 
Caledonia, rejoicing, .saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks to 
victory and fame; and, catching the inspiration, to pour the ileathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, 
a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phantom strides across my imagina- 
tion, and pronounces these emphatic wortls : — 

" 1, Wisilont, dwell with I'rudence. Friend, 1 tXo not come to open the 
ill-closed wounds of yoiu" follies and misfortunes, merely to give you pain: 
I wish tlirougli these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on vour heart. I 
will not mention how many of my salutary advices you have des])iscd : I 
have given you line upon line and precept upon precept; and while I was 
chalking out to you the straight way to wealtii and character, with 
audacitnis elfrontery you have" zigzagged across the patli, contemning me 
to my lace: you know the consequences. It is not yet tliree months since 
homo was so hot tor you tluit \ou were on the wing tor the western shore 
of tlie Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide your nustortune. 

" Now that your dear-loved .Scotia puts it in your power to return to the 
situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp meteors of 
fancy and whim till they bring you once more to the brink of ruin.'' I 
grant that the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a step tVom the 
veriest poverty; but still it is half a step from it. If all that I can urge be 
inetTectual, "let her who seldom calls to you in vain, let the call of Pride 
prevail with you. Von know how you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless 
oppression : \ ou know how you bear the galling sneer of contumelious 
greatness. 1 hold you out the conveniences, the comforts of life, inde- 
pendence, and character, on the one hand; 1 tender you civility, depend- 
ence, and wretchedness, on the other. I will no\. insidt \ our understanding 
by bidding yon make a choice." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station, 
and woo my rustic muse in mv wonted way at the plough-tail. .Still, niy 
lord, while tlie drops of life warm mv heart, gratitude to that dear-loved 
country in which I bo;ist my birth, anci gratitude to those her distinguished 



THE LE T TERS OF D URNS. 329 

sons who have honoured me so niiu h with their patronage and approba- 
tion, shall, while stealing througii my humi)le shades, ever distend my 
bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the swelling tear. — R. li. 



No. xr.v. 
TO MR. JAMES CANDI-I.SII.i 

EiMNi!iii«;ir, March 21st, 1787. 
MV KVICIt DICAR OLD ACQUAINTANCK, 

1 was e(jually smprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare 
say you will think by my deiajing so long to write to you that I am so 
dnnvned in the intoxication ot good fortune as to be indifferent to old, and 
once dear connexions. Tiie truth is, I was determined to write a good 
letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as Hayes says, all 
that. I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my soul, 1 could not; 
and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, 1 just sit down to 
tell you so. Don't give yourself credit, though, that the strength of your 
logic scares me : the truth is, 1 never mean to meet you on that ground at 
all. You have shown me one thing wiiich was to be demonstrated : that 
strong jjride of reasoning, with a Hi tie affectation of singularity, may mis- 
lead the best of hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, 
in the pritle of despising old women's stories, ventured in " the daring path 
Spinosa trod;" but experience of the weakness, not the strength of 
human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. 

1 am still, in the Ajjostle Paul's phrase, "The old man with his deeds," 
as when we were sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I shall be four 
weeks here yet at least ; and so 1 shall expect to hear from you ; welcome 
sense, welcome nonsense. 

I am, with the warmest sincerity, 

R. B. 

No. XLVI. 

TO . 

f One of the first things Burns did on his nrriv.il in K(linl)urgh wns, according to 
Alliui C'unniiij^ham, to seek out the lowly grave of Fcrgusson, when knei-lingdown 
111- kissed the sod. In February, 1787, he wrote to the managers of the Kirk and 
Kirkyaril I'uiids of Canongate, offering to " lay a sini])le stone over liis (Fer- 
gussou'iiO revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his deathless fame," 
— an offc^f which was cordially acctpled.] 

My DKAR .Sik, Edinbuugh, yi/^rt>-<r//, 1787. 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a .selfish, ungrateful fellow, 
having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and 
yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you : but if you knew what a 
devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good heart 

' Kather of tlie Rev. Ur. Candlibli, of Edinburgh. 



330 TffE LETTERS OF BURjYS, 



would think yoiu-sclf too imich avenged. By the by theiv is ni>thin,n in 
the whole tr.uuo of man which scorns to bo so unaccount.iblc as tiiat tluun' 
called ctMiscicnco. \\.\(\ the tioiihlcsoino ydinui; cur powci-s otticicut to 
jircvont a nuschict", he nui;ht ho oi vise: Inil at the hes;inninn ot tlie 
business, his teehle elVoits arc to the workiuus ot i>assion as tlie inlant 
iVosts ot an autunuud nuMning to the unclouded t"en<>ur ot" the risinj; sun: 
and no sooner are the tun\ultuous iloin^s ot the wicked deed over. th;in. 
amidst the bitter native consequences ot' tolly, in the very vortex ot' our 
honors, uj) starts conscience, and hanows us with the tcelin^s ot' t'v 
damned. 

The inscnjUion on the stone is as follows : — 

•• lllCUK l.lliS KCHUCKT l-KKGl'SSON, I'OIM'. 

" Born. September 5th, 1751 — Died. i6th September, 1774. 

" No soiilpturVl n\.uMc I>imv. uim- i>on\jHnis lay, 

' No sJovUxl 111 n nor iii\iin.>t«\l buM ; 
This simple stone iliuvls jule Scotia's way 

To jionr hct sorrows o'er her poet's dust." 

On the other side of the stone is as follows : — 

" Bv special {iiwnt of tl)0 Man;\goi's to Kohcrt lUiins, wlio eveotoil this stoiio, this 
burial pl.icc is to icuniii tor ever sacved to the nieinoi y ot Robert I'erj^iissou." 



No. XLVH. 

TO MRS. Dl'M,(M\ 
MaH.VM l'".iMNm'Ki;ii. .1Aj/\* nJ, \-j^y. 

1 re;id vour letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ;»oo, I 
had scarce a I'rienil but the stubbiMii jn ide oi my own bosom ; now 1 auj 
distinguished, ]>atroin/.eil. befriended by you. Vour tViendly advices — 1 
will not oive them the cold name of criticisms — 1 receive with reverence. 
I have made .some small alterations in wh;il 1 before hail printed. 1 h.tve 
the advice of some verv juilicious I'riends amono (ho literati here, but with 
them 1 sometimes tind it necessary to d.iim tlie privileoe of thiid^ino tor 
myself. The noble Karl of tdencairn, to whom 1 owe nuMO th.ui to any 
man. does me the honour of givino me his strictmes : his hints, with 
respect to impri>prielv or iiidelicacy. 1 tollow imi^licitly. / 

You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects; there 1 
can give you no light. It is all 

" l">ark ns \v,«s Chuos ere thr iiif.inl sun 
Was roll'vl tOiielhcr. or li;ul trioil lii> lioanis 
Athwart llie gloom profound." 

The appellatit>n of a Scottish bard, is by far my hi<;liost pride; to con- 
tinue to deserve it is mv most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish storv ;uv the themes I could wish to sing. I have \w tle.ucr aim 
than to have it in my power, unplagueil with the routine of business, for 
which heaven knows 1 ;nn unlit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages 
through Caledonia ; to sit on the lields of her battles ; to wander on the 



THE I.E T TERS OF D URNS. 3 3 1 



romantic hanloj of her rivers; and to muse by the stately towers or 

venerable ruins, once iFie honoured abodes of her heroes. 

I'iUt these are all IJt/jpian thoughts ; 1 have daliied lonjj enough with 
life; 'tis time to l;c In earnest. 1 have a <ond, an aged mother to care 
for : and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the 
individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, 
indolence, or tolly, he may be cxcnjsable ; nay, shining abilities, and some 
of th«; nobler virtues, may half sanctify a heedless character; but where 
(/od and nature have entrusted the welfare of others to his care; where 
til',- trust is sacred, and tho ties are dear, that man must be far gone in 
selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connexions will not 
rouse to exertirjn. 

i guess that 1 shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by my 
authorship;' with that sum 1 intend, so far as I may Ije said to have any 
intention, tf> return to my old acf|iiaint;ince, the j^lough, and, if I can 
meet with a lease by which I can live, to commence tarmer. I do not 
int'jiirl l(j give up poetry; being bred to labour, secu-es me indejjendence, 
and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. 
If my jjractice second my resolution, 1 shall have princij^ally at heart the 
serious business of life; but while following my jjlougli, or building up my 
Kh(M ks, 1 shall cjust a leis"re glance to that dear, that only feature of my 
cliar;u.ter, which gave me the notice of my country, and the patronage of 
a Wallace. 

Thus, h(;nf)ured Madam, 1 have given you the bard, hLs situation, and 
his views, native a;* they are in his own bo.som. — K. li. 



No. xi.vin. 

TO THK SA.ME. 
MaI>AM, Kuivf!i;r<CH, i%th April, 1787. 

There is an affectatif)n of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of 
Johnson and the pauses of .Slerre may hide a sr.lfish heart. For my pa.t. 
Madam, 1 trust 1 have t(jo much ];ride frjr servility, and too little prudence 
for svliishncss. 1 have this moment broken open your letter, but 

" Riidc am I in speech, 
Ad'J therefore little can I er.icc my cause 
, 111 Kpeakiiij; for niyitclf — 

SO I shall not trouble you with any fine specclics anrl hunted figures. I 
shall just lay my hand on my heart and say I lic^jje i shall ever have the 
truest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. 

1 come abroad, in print, for certain on Wednesday. Your orders I 
shall punctually attend to; only liy the way. I must tell you that I was 
paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss Williams' copies, through the 

' Kor tin: new edition of ilic I'ocins, wljii li sippeiired on aisl April, 1787, there were 1,500 mb- 
Hcribcrtt, enjjai^ing for 2,8uo copicK. liurnit cluarucl about ;£5oo by the wnole. 



332 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



medium of Commissioner Cochrane in tliis place, but that we can settle 
when I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith' was just gone to London the morning before I received 
your letter to him.— R. B. 



No. XLIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

EniNm'RCH, i-^d Afirt'l, T7S7. 

1 RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. 
I am ill skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors of 
gratitude. 1 thank you. Sir, for the honour you have done me ; and to 
m)- latest iiour will warmly remember it. To be highlv pleased with your 
book is \\ hat I have in common with the world ; but to regard these 
volumes as a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme 
gratification. 

I leave Edinljurgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight, and, after a 
few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cowden 
Knowcs, Hanks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c., 1 shr.ll return to my rural shades, 
in all likelihood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies 
and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a con- 
struction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the 
great, the fashionable, the polite, 1 have no equivalent to offer; and I am 
afraid my meteor appearance will by no means entitle me to a settled 
correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius 
and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. If once this tangent 
flight of mine were over, and I were returned to my wonted leisurely 
motion in my old circle, I may probably endeavor to return her poetic 
compliment in kind. — R. B. 



No. L. 

TO MRS. i:)UNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 30M A/>rill i-jZj. 
-Your criticisms, Madam, I understand verv welt and could 



have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your guess that 
I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much m\- superiors, have so 
flattered those who possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and 
power, that I am determined to flatter no created being, either in prose or 
verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, &c., as all these respective 
gentry do by my hardship. 1 know what I may expect from the world, 
by and by — illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

' Adam Smith, author of " Wealth of Nations." 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 333 

I am Iiappy, Madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are dis- 
tin^^uishcd by your particular approbation. For my " Dream," which has 
unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope in four weeks, or 
less, to have the honour of appearing, at Dunlop, in its defence in person. 

R. B. 



No. LI. 
TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn Market, Edinburgh, -^rd May, 1787. 

Reverend A\n much respected Sir, 

I leave Edinburgli to-morrow morning, but could not go without 
troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown mc. I often felt the embarrass- 
ment of my singular situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades of 
lite to the glare of remark; and honoured by the notice of those illus- 
trious names of my country whose works, while they are applauded to the 
end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However the meteor- 
like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notice, and 
honour me with the acquaintance of the permanent liglits of genius and 
literature, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal nature of man, 
I knew very well that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of 
preserving that character when once the novelty was over; I have made 
up my mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not surprise me in my 
quarter^. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's work^ for me, done on 
Indian paj^er, as a trifling but sincere testimony with what heart-warm 
gratitude I am, &c.'- — R. B. 

' The portrait of the Poet after Nasinyth. 

^ A few sentences of Blair's reply may be quoted, partly as testimony to Burns' behaviour in the 
capital, and partly as an example of the i)rctentioiis patrnnaqe of common-place men which he had 
to endure : — " Your situation, as you say, was indeed very sinijular; and m being brought out, all 
at once, from the shades of deepest privacy to so great a share of public notice and observation, 
you had to stand a severe trial. [ am happy that you have stood it so well : and, as far I have known 
or heard, ih )u;;li in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your character anci beha- 
viour. Vc/u are now, I presume, to retire to a more private walk of life; and I trust will conduit 
yourself there with industry, prudence and honour. You have laid the foundation for jUst publi;; 
esteem. In the midst of those employments which your situation will render proper, you will not 
I hope neglect to promote that esteem, by cultivating yonr genius, and attendmg to such produc- 
tions of it as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, be not in too great a haste to 
come forward. Take time and leisure to improve and mature your talents. For on any second 
production you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will very much depend. There is no doubt a 
gloss of novelty, which time wears off. As yo\i very properly hint yourself, you are not to be 
surprised, if in yonr rural retreat you dn not find yourself surrounded with that glare of notice and 
anjilause which here shone upon you. No man can be a good poet without being somewhat of a 
phil )soplier. He must lay his account, that any one, who exposes himself to public observation, 
will occasicmally meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, which it is always best to overlook and 
despise. He will be inclined sometimes to court retreat, and to disappear from public view. He 
will not affect to shine always; that he may at proper seasons come forth with more advantage 
and energy. He will not thiidc himself neglected if he be not always praised." 



334 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. LII. 
TO MR. W. NICOL, 

MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. 
Kind, honest-hearted Willie, Carlisle, Jtnie isi, 17S7. 

I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty miles ridin', e'en as for- 
jesket and forniaw'd as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' my 
land lowperlike stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' hour that I sheuk hands and 
parted with auld Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchvall'd up hill and, down brae, 
in Scotland'and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi' me.^ It's 
true, she's as poor's a sang-maker and as hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers 
when she taks the gate, first like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a 
hen on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, 
and has a stomack like Willie Stalker's meere that wad hae digeested 
tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip me afF her five stimparts o' the best aits at 
a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When ance her ringbanes and 
spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, beets to, 
and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager her price to a 
thretty pennies, that for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile a day, the 
deil-sticket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast 
saut on her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dumbar to Selcraig, and hae for- 
gathered wi' mony a guid fallow, and monie a weeltar'd hizzie. I met wi' 
twa dink quines in particlar, ane o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith 
braw and bonnie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weel- 
far'd winch, as blythe's a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, and as sweet and 
modest's a new bl'awn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They were baith bred 
to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum 
and rumblgumtion as the half o' some presbytries that you and I baith 
ken. They play'd me sik a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my harigals 
were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the mark o' a 
kail-whittle in a castock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, I gat myself 
sae noutouriously bitchify'd the day after kail-time, that I can haCdly 
stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our common friens, especial! 
Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the branks 
bide hale. 

Gude be wi' you, Willie ! Amen ! 

R. B. 

' This mare was the Poet's favourite, Jenny GeJdes. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 335 



No. LIII. 
TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

LINLITHGOW. 
My ever dear Sir, Mauchline, June 11th, 1787. 

I date this from Mauchline, where I arrived on Friday even last. 
If anything had been wanting to disgust me completely at Armour's family, 
their mean, servile compliance would have done it. 

Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, Milton's Satan: — 

" Hail, horrors! hail, 
Infernal world ! and thou profoundest Hell, 
Receive thy new possessor! he who brings 
A mind not to be changed hy place or time! " 

I cannot settle to my mind. Farming, the only thing of which I know 
anything, and heaven above knows but little do I understand of that, I 
cannot, dare not risk on farms as they are. If I do not fix, I will go for 
Jamaica. Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I would only 
dissipate my little fortune, and ruin what I intend shall compensate my 
little ones for the stigma I have brought on their names. — R. B. 



No. LIV. 

TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. 

My dear Friend, Mauchline, yrtne iWt, 1787. 

I am now arrived safe in my native country, after a very agreeable 
jaunt, and have the pleasure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted 
with your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr, Smith : and was highly 
pleased both with the cordial welcome he gave me, and his most excellent 
appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinlon, and am to meet him again 
in August. From my view of the lands, and his reception of my bard- 
ship, my hopes in that business are rather mended ; but still they are 
but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks — Mr. Burnside, the clergy- 
man, in particular, is a man whom I shall ever gratefully remember; 
and his wife, Gude forgie me ! I had almost broke the tenth command- 
men^ on her account. Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetne.ss of 
disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her 
manner and heart: in short — but if I say one word more about her, I 
shall be directly in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very capable of anything generous ; 
but the stateliness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility of my 
plebeian brethren (who perhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I re- 
turned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my 
species. I have bought a pocket Milton, which I carry perpetually about 
with me, in order to study the sentiments — the dauntless magnanimity, 



53^ THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



the intrepid, unyielding independence, tlie desperate daring, and noble 
defiance of liaidship, in that great personage, Satan. 'Tis true, I have 
just now a Httle casli ; but 1 am afraid the star that iiitherto has shed its 
malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith, that no.vious planet so 
baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I much dread it is not yet 
beneath my horizon. Misfortune dodges the path of human life ; the poetic 
mind finds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit tor the walks of business ; 
add to all, that thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, likt- so many 
igncs fatiii, eternally diverging from the right line of sober discretion, 
sparkle with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heed- 
less Bard, till, pop, " he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God grant 
this may be an unreal picture with respect to me ! but should it not, I 
have very little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this 
tribute my heart bids me pay you — the many ties of acquaintance and 
friendship which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, 
and, damn ihem, the)' are almost all of them of such frail contexture, that 
I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of 
fortune; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the 
Apostolic love that shall wait on me '-through good report and bad 
report" — the love which Solomon emphatically says " is strong as death." 
My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of our common 
friends. 

P.S. 1 shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of July. — R. B. 

No. LV. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[Burns was now on his first tour in the Iliglilands. His unsettled stale, dissat- 
isfaction with liis present circumstances, and anxiety for the luture, gave a some- 
what morose, distempered turn to his thoughts, except w hen care was drowned in 
wild jollity.] 

My DEAR Sir, Arrachak, 7w«<' 2S//(, 1787. 

I write this on my tour through a country where savage streams tumble 
over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, which 
starvinglv support as savage inhabitants. My last stage was Inverary 
— to-morrow night's stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have answei;ed 
your kind letter, but you know I am a man of many sins.-— R. B. 

No. LVI. 
TO MR. J.\MES SMITH, 

I.IN'LITlir.OW. 

My dear Friknd, J""" 3"'-''. 1787- 

On our return, at a Highland gentleman's hospitable mansion, we 
fell in with a merry party, and danced till the ladies Icfi. us, at three in the 
morning. Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid formal 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 337 

movements ; the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at intervals ; then we 
flew at '■ Hab at tlie IJovvster,'' " Tullochgorum," " Loch Errocii Sidc,"'&c., 
like midges sporting in the mottle sun, or craws prognosticating a storm 
in a hairst d.iy- When tlie dear lasses left us, we ranged round the bowl 
till tlie good-fellow iioLir of six ; except a few minutes that we went out to 
pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the towering top 
of Benlomond. We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl ; 
each man a full glass in his hand; and 1, as priest, repeated some rhym- 
ing nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies I suppose. After a 
small refreshment of tlie gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day 
on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at 
another good fellow's house, and consequently, pushed the bottle; when 
we went out to mount our horses, we found ourselves " No vera fou but 
sjaylie yet." My two friends and 1 rode soberly down the Loch sid'e, till 
by came a Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but 
wliich had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to 
be out-galloped by a Highlandman, .so olf we started, whip and spur. My 
companions, though seemingly gaily mounted, fell .sadly astern ; but my 
old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, strained past 
the Highlandman in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter: jusl as I 
was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me to 
mar my progress, when down came his horse, and tlirew his rider's breek- 
less a — e in a dipt edge; and down came Jenny (]eddes over all, and my 
hardship between her and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny Geddes trode 
over me with such cautious reverence, that matters were not so bad as 
might well have been expected; so I came off with a few cuts and 
bruises, and a thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the 
future. 

1 have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. 
I am," just as usual, a rhyming, ma.son-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. 
However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon. I was going to say, a 
wife too ; but that niust never be my Ijlessed lot. I am but a younger son 
of the house of Parnassus, and, like other younger sons of great families, 
I may intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must not marry. 

I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal one indeed, of 
my former hapj^iness; that eternal propensity I always had to fall in love. 
My heart no more glows with feverish rapture. I have no paradisiacal 
evening interviews, stolen from the restless cares and prying inhabitants 
of this/weary world. I have only * * * *. This last is one of your distant 
acquxintances, has a fine figure, and elegant manners; and in the train of 
some great folks whom you know, has seen the politest quarters of Europe. 
1 do like iier a good deal : but what ])i(iucs me is her conduct at the com- 
mencement of our acquaintance. I fre(|Ui'ntly visited her when I was in 

and after jjassing regularly the intermediate degrees between the distant 
formal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, inmycare- 
le.ss way, to talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; and after her 

* Scotch reels. 



338 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

return to , I wrote to her in the same style. Miss, construing my words 

farther I suppose than even I intended, flew off in a tangent of female 
dignity and reserve, like a mounting lark in an April morning; and wrote 
me an answer wliicli measured me out very completely what an immense 
way I Iiad to travel before I could reach tlie climate of her favour. IJut I 
am an old hawk at the sport, and wrote lier such a cool, deliberate, i)rudcnt 
reply, as brought my liird from her aerial towerings, pop, down at my foot, 
like Corporal Trim's hat. 

As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and all my wise sayings, and 
wiiy my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they shall be recorded in a few 
weeks hence at Linlithgow, in the chronicles of your memory, by R. B. 



No. LVII. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

My OEAK I\KIIMOi>ID, Mossgiel, 7«/y 7//(, 1787. 

1 am all impatience to hear of your fate since the old confoundcr of 
right and wrong has turned you out of place, by his journey to nnswcr his 
indictment at the bar of the other world. He will find the practice of the 
court so different from the practice in which he has for so many years 
been thoroughly hackneyed, that his friends, if he had any connexions 
truly of that kind, which 1 rather doubt, may well tremble for his sake. 
His chicane, his left-iianded wisdom, which stood so firmly by him, to 
such good purpose, here, like other accomplices in robbery and plunder, 
will, now the piratical business is blown, in all probability turn king's 
evidence, and then the devil's bagpiper will touch him oif " IJundle 
and go ! " 

If he has left you any legacy, I beg your pardon for all tiiis; if not, 1 
know you will swear to every word 1 said about him. 

I have lately been rambling over l)y Dumbarton and Invcrary. and 
running a drunken race on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild lligh- 
landman; liis horse, which had never known the ornaments of ii"on or 
leather, zigzagged across before my old s])avin'd hunter, whose name is 
Jenny Geddes, and down came the Highlandman, horse and all, and 
down came Jenny and my hardship; so I have got such a skinful of 
bruises and wounds, that I siiail be at least four weeks before I dare 
venture on my journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new thing under the sun has happened in Mauchline since you 
left it. I hope this will find you as comfortably situated as formerly, or, 
if heaven jjleases, more so; but, at all events, I trust you will let me know 
of course how m;,tters stand with you, well or ill. 'Tis but jjoor consola- 
tion to tell the worlil when matters go wrong ; but you know very wcU 
your connexion and mine stand on a different footing. 

I am ever, my dear P^riend, yours, 

R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 339 



No. LVIII. 
TO DR. MOORE.' 

SjR MaUCHLINE, .^?/^«.J^ 2(/, 17S7. 

For .some months past I have been rambling over the country, but I 
am now contined with some lingering comj^Iaints, originating, as I take it, 
in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, 
I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made 
some little noise in this country ; you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account of what 
character of a man I am, and how I came by that cliaracter, may perhaps 
amuse you in an itUe moment. I will give you an honest narrative, though 
I know it will be often at my own expense : for I assure you, Sir, I have, 
like Solomon, whose character, excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, 
I sometimes think I resemble, — 1 have, I say, like him turned my eyes to 
behold madness and folly, and like him, too, frequently shaken hands with 
their intoxicating friendship. After you have perused these pages, should 
you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that 
the poor author wrote tiieni under some twitching qualms of conscience, 
arising from a suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do ; a 
predicament he has more than once been in before. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character which 
the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a gentleman. When at 
Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's office ; and. look- 
ing through that granary of honours, I there foimd almost every name in 
the kingdom ; but for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood." 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c., quite disowned me. 

My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was 
thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large ; where, after many 
years' wanderings and sojournings, he picked uji a pretty large quantity of 
observation and experience, to which I am indebted foe most of my little 
pretensions to wisdom. I have met with few who understood men, their 
manners and their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, 
and headlong, ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances ; 
consequently, I was born a very poor man's son. For the first six or 
seven years of my life, my father was jjardener to a worthy gentleman of 
small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that 
station, I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings about 
a farmhouse ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his 
power to keep his children under his own eye, till they could discern 
between good and evil ; so with the assistance of his generous master, 
my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years, I was 
by no means a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a 
retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an 

' The original copy of this letter transmitted to Dr. Moore >s now in the British Museum. It 
difTcrs very nuich from the printed version. 



340 THE LETTERS OF BUFNS. 



cntluisiaslic idiot' piety. I say idiot pict)-, ht cause [ was then but a 
child. 'I'houi;!! it tost the schoolmaster st)nie thrashings, I made an 
excellent English scholar; and by the time 1 wns ten or eleven years of 
age, 1 was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In my inlant and 
boN'ish days, too, I owe much to an old woman who resided in the family, 
remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I 
suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concern- 
ing devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelincs, 
clf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparit'ons, cantraips, giants, enchanted 
towers, dragons and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of 
poetry; but had so strong an etTect on my imagination, that to this hour, 
in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp lot)k-out in suspicious 
places ; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such 
matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake oil' these idle 
terrors. The earliest composition that 1 recollect taking pleasure in, was 
"The Vision of Alirza," and a hymn of Addison's beginning, " How are 
thy servants l)lest, O Lord ! " I particularly remember one half-stanza which 
was music to my boyish ear — 

" For tlioiisU in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of my school- 
books. The fiist two books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
more ])leasure than any two books 1 ever read since, were " The Life of 
Hannibal," and the " History of Sir William Wallace." Hanniljal gave 
my young ideas such a turn, that I used tc^ strut in raptures up and down 
after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be 
a soldier; while Uie story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into 
my veins, which will boil along there till the flood-gales of life shut in 
eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country half mad, 
and L ambitious of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, between 
sermons, at funerals, &c., used a few years afterwards to i)uzzle Calvinism 
with so much heat and indiscretion, that 1 raised a hue and cry of heresy 
against me, which has not ceased to this hour. 

iMy vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My social disposi- 
tion, when not checked by some modifications of spited pride, was like 
our catechism detinition of infinitude, without bounds or limits. 1 iormjid 
several connexions with other younkeis, who possessed superior advan- 
tages ; the youngling actors who were busy in the rehearsal ^f parts 
in which they were shortly to api)ear on the stage of life, where, alas ! 
I was destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at 
this green age, that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense 
distance between them and their ragged play-fellows. It take:^ a few 
dashes into the world, to give the young great man that projier, decent, 
unnoticing disregard for th'^, poor, insignificant, stupid devils, the me- 
chanics and peasantry around him, who were, perhaps, born in the 

* Idiot fqr idiotic. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 341 



same village. My young superiors never insulted the cloutcrly appear- 
ance of my plough-boy carcase, tlic two extremes of wliich were often 
exjwsed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They wouli give me 
stray volumes of books ; among them, even then, I could pick up some 
observations, and one, whose heart, 1 am sure, not even the " Munny 
Begum" .scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with 
these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for 
the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction; but I was soon 
called to more .serious evils. My father's generous master died ; the farm 
proved a ruinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, we fell into the 
hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale 
of " Twa Dogs.'" My father was advanced in life wlien lie married; I 
was the eldest of seven children, and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but not easily 
broken. There was a freedom in his lease in two years more, and to 
weather these two years, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very 
poorly : I was a dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to 
me was a brother ((iilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and 
help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, have viewed 
these scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not 1 ; my indignation yet 
boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent threatening 
letters, which used to set us all in tears. 

This kind of life — the ciieerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing 
moil of a galley slave, brougiit me to my sixteenth year ; a little before 
which period 1 first committed tlie sin of rhyme. You know our country 
custom of coupling a man and woman togetlier as partners in the labours 
of Iiarvest. In my hfteentii autumn, my partner was a bewitching crea- 
ture, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the 
power of doing her justice in that language, but you know the Scottish 
idiom: she was a " bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." In short, she, altogether 
unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in 
spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and bookworm philos- 
ojihy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below ! How she caught the contagion I cannot tell ; you medical 
people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, 
itc. ; but I never exjiressly said I loved her. Indeed I did not know 
myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in 
tiic evening from our labours; why the tones of her voice made my heart- 
strinijs thrill like an /Kolian harp; and particularly why my pulse beat 
such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand to 
pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love- 
inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly; and it was her favourite reel to 
which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so 
presum|)tuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, 
composed by men wiio had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song 
which was said to be composed by a small country laird's son, on one of 
his father's maids, with whom he was in lov6 ; and I saw no reason why 
I might not riiyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear 



342 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands, he had no more 
acholar-craft than myself. 

Thus with me began love and poetry; which at times have been my 
only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoy- 
m.cnt. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, 
when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. 
The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little reacly 
money into his hands at the commencement of his lease, otherwise the 
alTair would have been imj^racticable. For four years we lived comfort- 
ably here, but a difference commencing between him and his landlord as 
to terms, after three years' tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, 
my father was just savetl from the horrors of a jail, by a consumption, 
which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, 
to where tlie wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary aie at 
rest ! 

It is during the time that we lived on this farm, that my little story is 
most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most 
ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted 
,vith the ways of the world. What I know of ancient story was gathered 
from Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical Grammars ; and the ideas I 
had formed of modern manners of literature, and criticism, I got from 
the Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, some Plays of Shakespeare, 
Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, The P'antheon, Locke's Essay on the 
Human Understanding. Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice's 
British Gardener's Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's W\)rks, 
Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of 
English Songs, and Herveys Meditations, had formed the whole of 
my reading. The collection of songs was my vade 7/iecufn. I pored 
over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by 
verse ; carefully noting the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation and 
fustian. I am convinced I owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, 
such as it is. 

In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I went to a 
country dancing-school. My father had an unaccountable antipathy 
against these meetings, and my going was, what to this moment I repent, 
in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I said before, was subject to 
strong passions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a 
sort of dislike to me, which, I believe, was one cause of the dissipatioi 
which marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparative!) 
with the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country 
life; for though the will-o'-wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost 
the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me 
for several years afterwards within the line of innocence. The great 
misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt early some 
stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer's 
Cyclops round tlie walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed 
on me perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I could enter 
the temple of fortune were the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 343 

little chicaning bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture 
I never could squeeze myself into it : the last I always hated — there was 
contamination in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in 
life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity as 
from a pride of observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or 
hypochondriasm that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to 
social life, my reputation for bookisJi knowledge, a certain wild logical 
talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good 
sense ; and it will not seem surprising that 1 was generally a welcome 
guest where I visited, or any great wonder that always, where two or 
three met togetiier. there was I among them. But far beyond all other 
impulses of m}- heart, was iin pencltaiit a Vadorablc iiioitic dii genre 
hninain. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up 
by some goddess or other; and, as in every other warfare in this world, 
my fortune was various ; sometimes 1 was received with favour, and 
sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or 
rcap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I' set absolute want at 
defiance ; and as 1 never cared farther for my labours than while I was 
in actual exercise, 1 spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. 
A country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an assisting 
confidant I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity that rec- 
ommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and 1 dare say, 
1 felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of the 
parish of Tarbolton. as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of 
half the courts of Europe. The very goose-featiier in my hand seems 
to know instinctively the well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite 
theme of my song ; and is with difficulty restrained from giving you 
a couple of paragraphs on the love adventures of my compeers, the 
humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage: but the grave sons of 
scicnice, ambition, or avarice baptize these things by the name of follies. 
To tlie sons and daughters of labour and poverty they are matters of 
the most serious nature : to them the ardent hope, the stolen interview, 
the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their 
enjoyment. 

Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in my 
mind and manners, was, that 1 spent my nineteenth summer' on a smug- 
gling coast, a good distance from lu m ;. at a noted school, to learn 
mensuration, .surveying, dialling, &c.. ia which I made a pretty good 
progress. But 1 made a greater progress in tiie knowledge of mankind. 
The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes 
hajipencd to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of 
swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were, till this time, new to me ; 
but 1 was no enemy to social life. Here, though 1 learnt to fill my glass, 
and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high 
hand with my <;eornetry. till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is 
always a carni\-al in my bosom, when a charming fiUette, who lived next 
door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me olf at a tangent 

• Seventeenth Summer in the M. S., Dr. Currie has written above it in pencil, " Nineteenth or 
twentictli." 



344 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

from the spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines 
and co-sines for a few da}'s more ; but stepping into the garden one chaim- 
ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there 1 met my angel — 

" Li'.;c Proserpine gnlhcriiig flowers. 
Herself a fairer (lower ." 

It was ill vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain- 
ing week 1 staid 1 did notliing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, 
or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, 
had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl 
had kept me guiltless. 

I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was enlarged 
v.ith the very im]iortant addition of Thomson's and Shenstone's Works : 
1 had seen human nature in a new pliasis ; and 1 engaged several of my 
schoolfellows to keep up a literary correspondence with me. This im- 
proved me in composition. I had met witlx a collection of letters by the 
wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly. I 
kept copies of any of my own letters tliat pleased me, and a comparison 
between them and the composition of most of my correspondents flattered 
my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three- 
farthings' worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought 
me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of the day-book 
and ledger. 

My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. 
V'i7'e rmnour, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. The 
addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure ; 
Sterne and Mackenzie — "Tristram Sliandy" and the "Man of Feeling" 
— were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind, 
but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had 
usually half a tlozen or more pieces on hand; I took up one or other, as 
it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it 
bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up raged like so 
many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my 
verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of those 
days are in print, except, "Winter, a dirge," the eldest of my printed 
])icces ; "The Death of Poor Maillie." "John rjarleycorn,"" and songs 
first, second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that passion 
v.hich ended the forementioned school-business. 

My twenty-third year was to me an important asra. Partly through 
v/liim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I 
j lined a fla.x-dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine), to learn his trade. 
This was an unlucky affair. My . . . and to finish the whole, 
as we were gi\'ing a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took 
fire and burned to ashes, and I was left, like a true ]:)oet, not worth a 
sixpence. 

I was obliged to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were 
gathering thick round my father's head; and, what was worst of all, he 
was visibly far gone in consumi)tion ; and to crown my distresses, ^ belle 
pile, whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the 



THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 3 4 ! 



field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of morti- 
fication. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal 
file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, 
that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied 
by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — depart from me, 
ye cursed ! 

From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the princi- 
pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed with 
a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune. 
He was tiie son of a sim])le mechanic ; but a great man in the neighbour- 
hood taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with 
a view of bettering iiis situation in life. The patron dying just as he was 
ready to launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea; 
where, after a variety of good and ill-fortune, a little before I was ac- 
quainted with him he had been set on shore by an American privateer, on 
the wild coast of Connaugiit, strijiped of every thing. I cannot quit this 
poor fellow's story without adding, tliat he is at this time master of a large 
VVest-Indiaman belonging to the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every 
manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
of course strove to imitate him. In some measure I succeeded; I had 
pride Ijcfore, but he tauglu it to flow in proper cliannels. His knowledge 
of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. 
He was the only man 1 ever saw who was a greater fool than myself where 
woman was the presiding star; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity 
of a sailor, which hitherto I iiad regarded with horror. Here his friend- 
ship did me a mischief, and the consequence was, that soon after I resumed 
the plough, I wrote the " Poet's Welcome." ' My reading only increased 
wiiilji in this town by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
religious pieces that are ui print, I had given up; but meeting with Fcr- 
gusson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with 
emulating vigour. When my father died, his all went among the hell- 
hounds that growl in tlie kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to collect 
a little money in the family amongst us, with which, to keep us together, 
my l)rother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brotiier wanted my hair- 
brained imagination, as well as my social and amorous madness ; but in 
good^sense, and every sober qualitication, he was far my superior. 

1 entered on this farm with a full resolution, "come, go to, I will be 
wise!" I read farming books, I calculated crops; I attended markets ; 
and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, I believe 
I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately Inly- 
ing bad .seed, the second from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This 
overset all my wisdom, and I returned, "like the dog to his vomit, and 
the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire." 

' " Rob tlie Rhymer's Welcome to his B.istard Child." 



346 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. 
The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque lamen- 
tation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis 
persona: in my " Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that the piece had 
some merit ; but, to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend, who 
was very fond of such things, and told him that 1 could not guess who 
was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. 
" Holy Willie's Prayer" next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk- 
session so mucli, that they held several meetings to look over their spiri- 
tual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. 
Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point- 
blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave 
rise to my printed poem, " The Lament." This was a most melancholy 
affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me 
one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have 
lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of rationality. I gave up my 
part of the farm to my brother; in truth it was only nominally mine; and 
made what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before 
leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to publish my poems. I 
weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power ; 1 thought they 
had merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fel- 
low, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver — 
or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of 
spirits ! I can truly say, that panvre inioiniii as I then was, I had pretty 
nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this mo- 
ment, when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion 
that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of 
view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance 
of themselves. To know myself had been all along my constant study. 
I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others ; I >vatched every 
means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and 
as a poet; I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — where 
the lights and shades in my character were intended. I was pretty confi- 
dent my poems would meet with some applause ; but at the worse, the roar 
of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West 
Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, x)f 
which I had got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. My van- 
ity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and 
besides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum 
came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want ot 
money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, 
the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage iu 
the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, for 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 347 

I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the 
terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless 
pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few 
friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last 
song 1 should ever measure in Caledonia — " The gloomy night is gather- 
ing fast," when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew 
all my .schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
doctor belonged to a set of cridcs for whose applause I had not dared to 
hope. His opinion, that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh 
for a second edition, fired me so much, thai away I posted for that city, with- 
out a single acqu.iintance, or a single letter of introduction. The banetul 
star that had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once 
made a revolution to the nadir; and a kind Providence placed me under 
the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Oitblie 
mot, grand Dien. si javiais je Voitbliel 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; I mingled 
among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I was all 
attenuon to "catch" the characters and "the manners living as they rise." 
Whether I have profited, time will show. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. Her very elegant 
and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is requisite 
in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. — R. B. 



No. LIX. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

My dear Sir, Stirling, ■lUh August, 1787. 

I intended to have written you from Edinburgh, and now write you 
from Siirling to make an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inverness, with 
a Iruiy original, but verv worthy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of 
the High-school in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie yesterday morning, 
and have passed, besides by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Fal- 
kirk, and here am 1 undoubtedly. This morning I knelt at the tomb of 
Sir jQhn the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace; and two 
hours ago 1 said a fervent pi-ayer for Old Caledonia over the hole in a blue 
whiastone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks 
of Bannockburn ; and just now, from Stirling Castle, I have seen by the 
setting sun the glorious prospect of the windings of Forth through the rich 
carse of Stirling, and skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The crops 
are very strong, but so very late that there is no harvest, except a ridge or 
two perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have travelled from Edinburgh. 

I left Andrew Bruce and family all well. I will be at least three weeks 
in making my tour, as I shall return by the coast, and have many people to 
call for. 



34^ THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



My best compliments to Charles, our dear kinsman and fellow-saint ; and 
Messrs. \V. and H. Parkers. I hope Hughoc is going on and prospering 
with tiod and Miss M'Causlin. 

If I could tiiink on anything sprightly, I should let you hear every other 
post; but a dull, matter-of-fact business Kkc this scrawl, the less and sel- 
domer one writes, the better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, that I am and ever shall be, 

My dear Sir, 

Your obliged 

R. B. 



No. LX. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

[Mr. Tait, of Ilarvieston, was a connexion of Gavin Hamilton; Mrs. Tait, who 
was then dead, Mrs. Hamilton (Gavin's stepnii>ther) who presided over the house- 
hold at Harvieston, and Mrs. Chahners, were sisters.] 

My dear Sir, Stirling, sS/A Au^ist, 17S7. 

Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have rambled over the rich, 
fertile car.ses of Falkirk and Stirling, and am delighted with their appear- 
ance : richly waving crops of wheat, barley, &c., but no harvest at all yet, 
except, in one or two places, an old wife's ridge. Yesterday morning I 
rode from this town up the meandering Devon's banks, to pay mj' respects 
to some Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, we made a party 
to go and see tlie famous Caudron-linn, a remarkable cascade in tlie Devon, 
about five miles above Harvieston ; and after sjKMiding one of the most 
pleasant days I^ever had in my life, 1 returned to Stirling in the evening. 
They are a family, Sir: though I had not had any prior tie, though they 
had not been the brother and sisters of a certain generous friend of mine, 
I would never forget them. I am told you have not seen tliem these sev- 
eral years, so you can have very little idea of what tliese young folks now 
are. Your brother is as tall as you are, but slender rather than otherwise; 
and I have the satisfaction to inform vou that he is getting tlie better of 
those consumptive symptoms which I suppose you know were threatenin;^ 
him. His make, and particularly his manner, resemble you, but he will 
still have a finer face. (1 put in the word still, to please Airs. Hamilton.) 
Good sense, modesty, and at the same time a just idea of that respect that 
man owes to man, and has a right in his turn to exact, are striking icaturcs 
in his character; and, what with me is the Alpha and the Omega, lie has 
a heart that might adorn the breast of a poet! Grace has a good figure, 
and the look of health and cheerfulness, but nothing else remarkable in 
her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and 
your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first ; 
but as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with the native frankness 
of her manner, and the sterling .sense of her observation. Of Charlotte' I 

' Daughter of Mrs. Hamilton. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. .■?49 

cannot speak in common terms of admiratiop : she is not only beautiful, 
hut lovely. Her form is elegant; her features not regular, but they have 
the smile of sweetness and tiie settled complacepcy of good nature in the 
highest degree; and her complexion, now tiiat sh'; has happily recovered 
her wontecl health, is e(iual to Miss Burnet's. After the exercise of our 
riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's mistress: — 

" Her pure and elociiient blood 



Spoke ill her checl:;,. and so distinctly wrought. 
That one would almost say her body thotight." 

Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness, 
and a noble mind. 

I do not give you all this account, my good Sir, to flatter you. I mean 
it to reproach you. Such relations the first peer in the realm might own 
with pride ; then why do you not keep up more correspondence with 
these so amiable young folks? I had a thousand questions to answer 
about you I had to describe the little ones with the minuteness of 
anatomy. They were highly delighted when I told then that John was 
so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that Willie Avas going on still 
very pretty; but I have it in commission to tell her from them that 
beauty is a j^oor silly baul)Ie without she be good. Miss Chalmers I 
had left in Edinburgh, but I had the jjlcasure of meeting with Mrs. 
Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie ' being rather a little alarmingly ill of a 
Bore throat somewhat marred our enjoyment. 

I shall not ])e in Avrsliire for four weeks. My most respectful com- 
pliments to Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie. \ 
shall probably write him from some stage or other. 

1 am ever. Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

R. B. 

No. LXI. 

TO MR. WALKER, 

BLAIR OF ATHOLE. 

[Mr. Josiah Walker, afterwards Professor, had met Burns at Edinburgh, and 
was then engaged at lilair Athol as a tutor. He introduced Burns to the Alhole 
family, and it was in coniniemoratioii of his very kind reception that the Pict 
Wiute/the piece accompanying this letter, "The Mumble Petition of Bruar-water.' 
Mrs. Graham and Miss Cathcart, mentioned below, were sisters of the Duchess.] 

My dear Sir, Inv^-smess, ith September, 1787. 

I have just time to write the foregoing, and to tell you that it was 
(at least most part of it) the effusion of an half-hour I s]")ent at Bruar. 
I do not mean it was extemj^ore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as 
well as Mr. NicoPs chat and the jogging of the chaise would allow. It 
eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays 
his debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to the noble family of 

• One of Mrs. Chalmers' married daughters, wife of Sir Hector Mackenzie. 



35° THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need ! I shall never forget. 

The " little angel-band ! " I declare I prayed for them very sincerely 
to-day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family-piece I 
saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly noble Duchess, with her smiling little 
seraph in her lap, at the head of the table: the lovely "olive plants;" as 
the Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy mother : the beautiful Mrs. 

G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C . &c. I wish I had the powers of 

(Juido to do them justice! My Lord Dukt^'s kind hospitality — markedly 
kind indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintry's chanviS of conversation — Sir W. 
Murray's friendship. In short, the recollections of all that polite, agree- 
able company raises an honest glow in my bosom. — R. L. 



No. LXII. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

My dear Brother, Edinburgh, 17M September, 1787. 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a tour of twenty-two days, 
and travelling near six hui?dred miles, windings included. My farthest 
stretch was about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went through the heart 
of the Highlands by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous seat of Lord Bredal- 
bane, down the Tay, among cascades and Druidical circles of stones, to 
Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; thence across Tay, and up one 
of his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the Duke's seats, 
where I had the honour of spending nearly two days with his Grace and 
family ; thence many miles through a wild country among cliffs gray with 
eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went 
down the stream through Strathspey, — so famous in Scotch music, — 
Badenoch, &c., till I reached Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed the country for Fort 
George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth ; 
there I saw the identical bed, in which tradition sa)s King Duncan was 
murdered : lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen, 
thence to Stonehive, where James Burness, from Montrose, met me by 
appointment. I spent two days among our relations, and found -our 
aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. John Cairn, ^ 
though born the same year with our father, walks as vigorously as I can : 
they have had several letters from his son in New York. William Brand 
is likewise a stout old fellow ; but further particulars I delay till I see you, 
which will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my stages are not 
worth rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I had 
seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns or fertile carses? I 
slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gordon 
Castle next day, with the Duke, Duchess, and family. 1 am thinking to 

* Husband of Elizabeth Burns, another aunt. Mr. Brand was Isabel's husband. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 351 

cause my old mare to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow; 
but you shall hear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty 
and many compliments from the north to my mother ; and my brotherly 
compliments to the rest. I have been trying for a berth for William, 1 
but am not likely to be successful. Farewell. — R. B. 

No. LXIII. 
TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. 

September ■26ik, 1787. 

I SEND Charlotte - the first number of tlie songs ; I would not wait 
for the second number; I hate delays in little marks of friendship, as I 
hate dissimulation in the language of the heart. I am determined to pay 
Charlotte a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some glorious old Scotch 
air, in number second.'^ You will see a small attempt on a shred of paper 
in the book ; but, though Dr. Blacklock commended it very highly, I am 
not just satisfied with it myself. I intend to make it a description of some 
kincl : the whining cant of love, except in real passion, and by a masterly 
hand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old Father Smeaton, 
Whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, Cupids, loves, graces, and all 
that farrago, are just a iVlauchline .... a senseless rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable 
author of " Tullochgorum," "John of Badenyon," <&c.* I suppose you 
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest poetic compliment I ever 
got. 1 will send you a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to wait on Mr. Miller about 
his farms. Do tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me credit 
for a little wisdom. " I Wisdom dwell with Prudence." What a blessed 
firC'side! How happy should I be to pass a winter evening under their 
venerable roof! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with 
them ! WHiat solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of phiz ! 
What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as we straitened the fire-side 
circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N.[immoJ is very well, and begs to be remembered in the old way to 
you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, 
and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out to 
Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its effect 
on the lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale 
of other years." In my conscience I believe that my heart has been so 
oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with sometliing 
like the admiration with which I regard the starry sky in a frosty December 
niglit. I admire the beauty of the Creator's workmanship ; I am charmed 
with the wild but graceful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish them 
good night. I mean this with respect to a certain passion doiit fai eu 

' Burns' yoimccer brother. ^ Charlotte Hamilton. ' Of the Scots Musical Museum. 

* Rev. John Skinner, father of Bishop Skinner. The Utter was in the shape of a poetical 
address to the " Country Ploughman." 



35 2 THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 

Vhonneiir iVetre tin miserable esclave : as for friendship, you and Charlotte 
have given nie pleasure, permanent pleasure, " which the world cannot 
give nor take away," I hope ; and which will outlast the heavens and the 
earth. — R. B. 

No. LXIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

Without date. 

I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about 
a farm in that country. I am rather hopeless in it; but as my brother is 
an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent, sober man 
(qualiti-es w'.iich are only a younger brother's fortune in our family), I am 
determined, if my Dumfries lousiness fail me, to return into partnership 
with him, and at our leisure take another farm in the neighbourhood. 

I assure you I look for high com])liments from you and Charlotte on 
this very sage instance of my unfathomable, incompreliensible wisdom. 
Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, to the best of my power, 
paid her a poetic compliment, now completed. The air is admirable: 
true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic song, which an Inverness 
lady sung me when I was there ; and I was so charmed with it that I 
begged her to write me a set of it from her singing; for it ha'd never been 
set before. 1 am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number; so 
Charlotte and vou need not spend your precious time in contradicting me. 
I won't say the poelrv is first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very well ; 
and, what is not always the ease with compliments to ladies, it is not only 
sincere, but just. 

[Here fullows the song of " The Banks of the Devon," given in page 215.] 

R. B. 

No. LXV. 

TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., 

GORDON CASTI.E. 

[Hoy was librarian at Gordon Castle — a character of the Dominie Sampson 
kind. " It was," says Mr. Robert Cnrruthers, " the business of Hoy, during the 
day, to store his mind with ail such knowledge as the publicatit>ns of the time sup- 
plied; and then over a bottle of claret, after dinner, imjiart to Ins Crace of. Gordon, 
all that he reckoned v.iluable or important." Burns was delighted with his blunt, 
straightforward manner, and the librarian strove, it is said, to repay it by giving 
the postboy a ciown to contrive, no matter how, to stoj) the liard's departure from 
Fochabers. The fierce impetuosity of Nicol prevented tliis.] 

gll- EniNnuRGU, 2oM October, 1787. 

I will defend my conduct in giving you this trouble, on the best of 
Christian principles —'" Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto 
you, do ye even so unto them." I shall certainly, among my legacies, 
leave my latest curse to that unlucky predicament which hurried — tore me 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 353 

away from Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] 
be curst to Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league paragraphs ; 
while Declension and Conjugation, Gender, Number, and Time, under the 
ragged banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement, eternally rank against 
him in hostile array. 

Allow me, Sir, to strengthen the small claim I have to your acquaintance, 
by the following request. An engraver, James Johnson, in Edinburgh, 
has, not from mercenary views, but from an honest Scotch enthusiasm, 
set about collecting all our native songs and setting them to music; par- 
ticularly those that have never been set before. Clarke, the well-known 
musician, presides over the musical arrangement, and Drs. Beattie and 
Blacklock, Mr. Tytler of WoodhouseL^e, and your humble servant to the 
utmost of his small power, assist in collecting the old poetry, or sometimes 
for a tine air make a stanza, when it has no words. The brats, too tedious 
to mention, claim a parental pang from my bardship. I suppose it will 
appear in Johnson's second number — the first was published before my 
acquaintance with him. My request is — "Cauld Kail in Aberdeen," is 
one intended for this number, and 1 beg a copy of his Grace of (Gordon's 
words to it, which you were so kind as to rej^eat to me. You may be sure 
we won't prefix the author's name, except you like, though I look on it as 
no small merit to this work that the names of many of the authors of our 
old Scotch songs, names almost forgotten, will be inserted. I do not well 
know where to write to you — I rather write at you ; but if you will be so 
obliging, immediately on receipt of this, as to write me a few lines, I shall 
perhaps pay you in kind, though not in quality. Johnson's terms are : — 
each number a handsome pocket volume, to consist at least of a hundred 
Scotch songs, with basses for the harpsichord, &c. The price to sub- 
.scribers, 5.^. ; to non-subscribers, 6j. He will have three numbers, I 
conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks will be at Mr. William Cruikshank's, 
St. James's-square, New-town, Edinburgh. 

I am, Sir, 

Yours to command, 

R. B. 

No. LXVI. 
/ 

TO REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Reverend and venekarle Sir, '^mtiw^oM, October 1^th,1^z^. 

Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best 
poetical compliment I ever received. I assure you. Sir, as a poet, you 
h.ive conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best 
abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and 
while I live I shall regret, that when I was in the north, I had not the 
pleasure of paying a younger brother's dutiful respect to the author of the 
best Scotch song ever Scotland saw — " Tullochgorum's niv delight!" 
The world may think slightingly of the craft of song-making if they 



354 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

please, but, as Job says — " O that mine adversary had written a book ! " 
— let them try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a 
wild happiness of thought and expression, which peculiarly marks them, 
not only from English songs, but also from the modern efforts of song- 
wrights, in our native manner and language. Tlie only remains of this 
enchantment, the.se spells of the imagination, rests with you. Our true 
brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise " owre cannie " — a " wild war- 
'ock ; " but now he sings among the " sons of the morning." 

I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour, to form a kind of 
common acquaintance among ail the genuine sons of Caledonian song. 
The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us ; but 
"reverence thyself." The world is not o\xx peers, so we challenge the jury. 
We can lash that world, and find ourselves a very great source of amuse- 
ment and happiness independent of that world. 

. There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just now, which claims your 
best assistance. An engraver in this town has set about collecting and 
publishing all the Scotch songs, with the music, that can be found. Songs 
in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but the music 
must all be Scotch. Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are lending a hand, and 
the first musician in town presides over that department. I h.ive been 
absolutely crazed about it, collecting old stanzas, and every information 
remaining respecting their origin, authors, &c. &c. This last is but a very 
fragment business; but at the end of his second number — the first is 
already published — a small account will be given of the authors, paij^ticu- 
larly to preserve those of latter times. Your three songs, " Tullochgorum," 
"John of Badenyon," and '■ Ewie wi' the crookit Horn," go in this second 
number. I was determined, before I got your letter, to write you, begging 
that you would let me know where the editions of these pieces may be 
found, as you would wish them to continue in future times ; and if you 
would be so kind to this undertaking as send any songs, of your own or 
others that you would think proper to publish, your name will be inserted 
among the other authors, — " Nill j-e, will ye." One half of Scotland 
already give your songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear 
from you ; the sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or 
three weeks. 

I am, with the warmest sincerity. Sir, 

Your obliged humble servant," 
• R. B. 

No. LXVII. 
TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., 

GORDON CASTLE. 

Dear Sir, Edinburgh, kth November, 1787. 

I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of your kind letter, 

but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered to ine that I ought 

to send you something by way of return. When a poet owes anything, 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 355 

particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the payment that usually 
recurs to him — the only coin indeed in which he is probably conversant — 
is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, and begs me 
to enclose his most grateful thanks : my return I intended should have 
been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not seen, or 
perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. These I shall send you before 
I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which, on the 
whole, is no bad way of spending one's precious hours and still more 
precious breath : at any rate, they will be, though a small, yet a very 
sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose farther 
acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation. 

The Duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. 
There is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and expression 
peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his Grace, old 
venerable Skinner, the author of " Tullochgorum," &c., and the late Ross 
at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the only modern instances 
that I recollect, since Ramsay, with his contemporaries, and poor Bob 
Fergusson, went to the world of deathless existence and truly immortal 
song. The mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, would laugh at so 
serious a speech about an old song ; but, as Job says, "O that mine adver- 
sary had written a book ! " Those who think that composing a Scotch 
song is a trifling business — let them try. 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the Christian 
admonition — " Hide not your candle under a bushel," but " Let your light 
shine before men." I could name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a 
devilish deal worse employed ; nay, I question if there are half a dozen 
better : perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom Heaven has 
favoured with the tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorious gift. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your obliged humble Servant, 
R. B. 



No. LXVIII. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ., 

EDINBURGH. 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, November 23^, 1787. 

I BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make any appointment to take us to 
Mr. Ainslie's to-night. On looking over my engagements, constitution, 
present state of my health, some little vexatious soul concerns, HiC, I find 
I can't sup abroad to-night. I shall be in to-day till one o'clock, if you 
have a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, that I find the idea of your 
friendship almost necessary to my existence. You assume a proper length 
of face in my bitter hours of blue-devilism, and you laugh fully up to my 
highest wishes at my good things. I don't know upon the whole, if you 



35<5 THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



are one of tlie first fellows in God's world, but you are so to me. I tell 
you this just now in the conviction that some inequalities in my temper 
and manner may perhaps sometimes make you suspect that 1 am not so 
warmly as I ought to be your friend. — R. B. 



No. LXIX. 
TO MISS MABANE [aI'Terwards MRS. COL. WRIGHT]. 

Saturday noon, No. 2, St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the stony altitude of perplexed 
study for fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the 
intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of clay poured 
around ; my pendulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the 
future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a complimentary card 
to accompany your trinket. 

Comi)liment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a 
chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, 
for the very soul of me, use it to an)- person for whom 1 have the twentieth 
part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure of 
calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about 
seven or after, I shall wait on you for your f^xrewcll commands. 

The hinge 'of your box I put into the hands of the proper connoisseur. 
The broken glass, likewise, went under re\iew ; but deliberative wisdom 
thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric. 
1 am, dear Madam, 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm, 

Your very obedient Servant, 

R. B. 

No. LXX. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, N'oi'ember 21, 1787. 
I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly-welcome, well-filled sheet which 
I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness — it contains too much sense, 
sentiment, and good spelling. It is impossible that even you two, whom 
I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of excellence the sex 
are capable of attaining, it is imj^iossible you can go on to correspond 
at that rate ; so, like those who. Shenstone says, retire because they have 
made a good speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear no more of you. I 
insist that you shall write whatever comes first : what you see, what you 
read, what you hear, what 3'ou admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, 
nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. 
Now none of your polite hints about flattery : 1 leave that to your lovers, 
if you have or shall have any; though, thank heaven, I have found at 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 357 



last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with 
one another, without tliat ct)nim()n]y necessary appendage to female bliss 
— a lover. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for my soul in 
her wanderings througl". the weary, tliorny wilderness of this world. God 
knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle: I glory in being a Poet, and I want 
to i)e thought a wise man — I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be 
rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle 
o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last 
sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carrick by 
the title of the " Wabster's grace : " 

'■ Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we. 
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we! 
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he! 
Up and to your looms, lads." 

R. B. 

No. LXXI. 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 
Sir, [Edinburgh, December, 1787.] 

Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, 
has informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my 
fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as 
a poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by . . . 
friends to them, and honoured acquaintances to me ; but you are the first 
gen-tleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has 
interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master 
enough of the etiquette of the.se matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, 
whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my thanking you 
in this manner, as I am convinced, from the light in which you kindly 
view me, that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is not the 
manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper 
life, who honour him wiih a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, 
the situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some 
measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at times 
been guilty of. I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary 
concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless, indolent attention 
to economy is jJmost inseparable from it ; then there must be in the 
hjart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility, 
mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of 
those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence and 
foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than 
his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as a 
scholar gives him some pretensions to \\\<i politcsse of life — yet is as poor 
as 1 am. 



35 8 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder ; learning never 
elevated 'my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent 
fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the 
manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish or worse, as to stoop to 
traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as 
to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. 
With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with which you 
interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently 
the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to God, and integ- 
rity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. I have no 
return. Sir, to make you for your goodness but one — a return which I am 
persuaded will not be unacceptable — the honest, warm wishes of a 
grateful heart for your happiness, and every one of that lovely flock, who 
stand to you in a filial relation. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at 
them, may friendship be by to ward the blow ! — R. B. 



No. LXXII. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON. 
My dear Sir [Edinburgh, December, 1787.] 

It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congratulate you on 
the return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours 
of misery in which I saw you suft'ering existence when last in Ayrshire ; 
I seldom pray for anybody, " I'm baith dead-swcer and wretched ill o't; " 
but most fervently do I beseech the Power that directs the world, that you 
may live long and be happy, but live no longer than )OU are hap]3y. It is 
needless for me to advise you to have a reverend care of )our health. I 
know }'Ou will make it a point never at one time to drink more than a pint 
of wine (I mean an English pint), and that you will never be witness to 
more than one bowl of punch at a time, and that cold drams you will 
never more taste ; and, above all things, I am convinced, that after drink- 
ing perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount your horse and gallop 
home in a chill late hour. Above all things, as I understand you arc in 
habits of intimacy with that Boanerges of gospel powers. Father Auld, be 
earnest with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may st;e 
the vanity of vanities in trusting to, or even practising the casual moral 
works of charity, humanity, generosit)-, and forgiveness of tilings, which 
you practised so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them, neg- 
lecting, or perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of failh 
without works, the only author of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving 
would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and in my 
zeal for }'onr well-being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent in chaunt- 
ing over the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments 
to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. 

Yours, &c., 

K. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 359 



No. LXXIII. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

My dear Madam, Edinburgh, December, 1787. 

I just now have read yours. The poetic compliments I pay cannot 
be misiuicierstoocl. They are neither of them so particular as to point you 
out to tlie world at large ; and the circle of )our acquaintances will allow 
all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, 
on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you.'' I will ; so look to it. 
Personal attractions, Madam, you have much above par ; wit, understand- 
inij, and worth, you possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way of 
telling you these truths, but let me hear no more of your sheepish timidity. 
I know the world a little. I know what they will say of my poems ; by 
second sight I suppose, for I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you 
may believe me, ni)' dear Madam, I would not run any risk of hurting you 
bv anv ill-judged compliment. I wish to show the world the odds between 
poet"s friends and those of simple prosemen. More for your information, 
both the pieces go in. One of them, "Where braving angry winters 
storms," is already set — the tune is "Neil Gow's Lamentation iox Aber- 
cairny : " the other is to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow's 
collection of ancient Scots music; the name is '^ Na a ChaillicJi air nio 
Dheith.''^ My treacherous memory has forgot every circumstance about 
Las Incas, only I think you mentioned them as being in Creech's posses- 
sion. I shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of " Somebody " will 
come too late — as I shall for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, 
and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
direction in town, so an}'thing, wherever 1 am, will reach me. 

I saw yours to ; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On 

the contrary, like a whipped spaniel, he talks of being with you in the 
Christmas days. Mr. has given him the invitation, and he is de- 
termined to accept it. O selfishness ! he owns, in his sober moments, 
that from his own volatility of inclination, the circumstances in which 
he is situated, and his knowledge of his father's disposition, the whole 
affixir is cliimerical — yet he w/// gratify an idle pencltant at tlie enormous, 
cruel e.\jjense of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman for whom he 
jjrofesses the generous passion of lovej He is a gentleman in his mind 
and manners — taut pis I He is a volatile school-boy — the heir of a man's 
fortune who well knows the value of two times two ! 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make 

the amiable, tlie lovely , the derided object of their purse-proud 

contempt ! 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's recovery, because I really 

thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting 
her: 

" As I came in by Glenap, 
I met with an aged woman : 
She bade me cheer up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was comin'." 



360 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are. like myself, 
not what the\- ought to be ; yet better than what they appear to be. 

" Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, 
That hideous sight — a naked human heart." 

Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. 

R. B. 



No. LXXIV. 

TO MRS. M'LEIIOSE. 

[The correspondence with Clarinda records one of the most interesting, allhouorh 
by no means cretlitable episodes of liurns's romantic life. The circumstances 
under which the letters were exchanged are explained in the biographical 
Preface. It was at the house of Miss Nimmo, an elderly lady, known both to 
Burns and his friend, Miss Chalmers, that they hrst met at tea, according to Mr. 
Robert Chamber's reckoning, a1)out the 4th of December; and the following letter, 
the iirst of a remarkable series, is an acceptance of Mrs. M'Lehose's invitation to 
tea, on .Saturday the Sth. Mrs. M'Lehose preserved all Ikirns's letters, « hich she 
esteemed, in her own words, " precious memorials of an acquaintance, the recollec- 
tion of wliich would influence me were I to live fourscore." (Letter to Mr. Syme, 
1796.) After his death siie cjffered to select some passages for publication in the 
Collected edition of his writings for the benefit of his widow and children. The 
person to whom she lent the letters for the transcription of the extracts she had 
chosen, copied them all, and published them in violation of his own engagement 
and against Mrs. M'Lehose's wish. I'arts were given in Cromek's Rcltqu<s.'] 

Madam Tuesday Evening, [Avi-wi^cr 6, 1787]. 

I had .set no small store by my tea-drinking to-night, and have 
not often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall embrace the 
opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave town this day se'nn-ght, 
and probably for a couple of twelvemonths ; but must ever regret that I 
so lately got an acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem, and in whose 
welfare I shall ever be warmly interested. 

Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied ine a 
good deal on my new acquaintance, and in the humour of her ideas I 
wrote some lines, which I enclose you, as I think they have a good deal 
of poetic merit; and Miss [Nimmo] tells me you are not only a critic, but 
a poetess. Fiction, you know, is the native region of poetry ; and 1 hope 
vou will pardon my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a tolerable olf- 
hand fai d'csprit. I have several poetic trifles, which 1 will gladly leave 
with Miss [Nimmo] or you, if they were worth house-room; as tnere are 
scarcely two people on earth bv whom it would mortify me more to be tor- 
gotten, though at the distance of ninescore miles. 

I am, Madam, with the highest respect, 

Your very humble Servant, 



THE LE T TERS OF B UKNS. 3 6 r 

No. LXXV. 

TO MRS. M'LEIIO.SE. 

[An accident tlirough a drunken coachman prevented Burns from keeping liis 
engagement.] 

Snturday Even \Dec. 8]. 

I CAX say with truth. Madam, that I never met with a person in my 
life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. To-night 
I was to have had that very great pleasure — I was intoxicated with the 
idea; but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one ot my knees, 
th.it I can't stir my leg otT the cushion. So, if I don't see you again, I 
shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not 
seen you sooner. 1 determined to cultivate your friendship with the 
enthusiasm of religion ; but thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot 
bear the idea of leaving Edinburgh without seeing you. I know not how 
to account for it — I am strangely taken with some people, nor am I often, 
mistaken. You are a stranger to me ; but 1 am an odd being. Some yet 
unnamed feelings — things, not principles, but better than whims — carry 
me farther than boasted reason ever did a philosopher. 

Farewell ! every happiness be yours. 

Robert Burns. 



No. LXXVI. 

TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. 

[Mrs. M'Lehose, in condoling with him on his accident, said, " Were I your 
sister 1 would call and see you," and enclosed some verses she had written after 
reading the little poein he had sent her, modestly disclaiming the idea of their 
being poetry.] 

1 STRETCH a point indeed, my dearest Madam, when I answer your card 
on the rack of my present agony. Your friendshij), Madam ! By heavens, 
1 was never ])roud l)efore I Your lines, I maintain it, are poetry, and 
good ])oetry ; mine were indeed partly fiction, and partly a friendship 
which, had I been so blest as to have met with you in time, might have led 
me — (iod of love only knows where. Time is too short for ceremonies. 

I swear solemnly, (in all the tenor of my former oath) to remember you 
in all tlie pride and warmth of friendship until — I cease to be ! 

To-morrow, and every day, till I see you, you shall hear from me. 

Farewell ! May you enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely tc 
have. 



362 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

No. LXXVII. 

TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. 

[In her rejoinder Mrs. M'Lehose reminded her correspondent that, though 
practically a widow, she was still a w'ife, and asked him playfully whether he 
could, Jacob-like, wait seven years for a wife at the risk of being even tlien dis- 
appointed.] 

Your last, ni}- dear Madam, had the effect on me that Job's situation 
had on his friends, when "they sat down seven days and seven nights 
astonied, and spake not a word." " Pay my addresses to a married 
woman ! " I started as if I had seen the ghost of him I liad injured : I 
recollected my expressions ; some of them indeed were, in the law phrase, 
" habit and repute," which is being half guilty. I cannot positively say. 
Madam, whether my heart might not have gone astray a little ; but I can 
declare, upon the honour of a poet, that the vagrant has wandered 
unknown to me. I have a pretty handsome troop of follies of my own ; 
and, like some other people's retinue, they are but undisciplined black- 
guards : but the luckless rascals have something of honour in tliem : they 
would not do a dishonest thing. 

To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young, deserted and 
widowed by those who were bound by every tie of duty, nature, and 
gratitude to protect, comfort, and cherish her; add to all, when she is 
perhaps one of the iirst of lovely forms and noble minds, the mind, too, 
that hits one's taste as the joys of heaven do a saint — should a vague 
infant idea, the natural child of imagination, thoughtlessly peep over the 
fence — were you, my friend, to sit in judgment, antl the poor, airy straggler 
brought before you, trembling, self-condemmed, with artless eyes, brimful 
of contrition, looking wistfully on its judge, you could not, my dear 
Madam, condemn the haj)less wretch to death " without benefit of clergy?" 

I won't tell you what reply my heart made to your raillery of "seven 
years : " but 1 will give you what a brother of my trade says on the same 
allusion : — 

" The Patriarch to gain a wife, 
Cliasie, beautiful and youiiq;, 
Served fourteen years a painfid life, 
And nevir thought it long. - 

" Oh, were you to reward such cares. 
And life so long would stay. 
Not fourteen but four hundred years 
Would seem as but one day. 

I have written yovt this scrawl because I have nothing else to do, and 
you may sit down and find fault with it, if you have no better way of con- 
suming your time; but finding tault with the vagaries of a poet's fancy 
is much such another business as Xerxes chastising the waves of the 
Hellespont. 

My limb now allows me to sit in some peace : to walk I have yet no 
prospect of, as I can't mark it to the ground. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. Z^l 

I have just now looked over what I have written, and it is such a chaos 
of nonsense that I daresay you will throw it into the fire, and call me an 
idle, stupid fellow ; but whatever you may think of my brains, believe me 
to be, with the most sacred respect and heartfelt esteem, 

My dear Madam, your humble Servant, 

Robert Burns. 



No. LXXVIII. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[It is worth while to break the continuity of the Clarinda correspondence, by 
interspersing other letters written by Burns at the same time, in order to illustrate 
his state of mind at tliat period, and to enable readers to judge of the artihcial 
character of the passit)nate addresses to that lady.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb e.xtended on 
a cushion ; and tlie tints of my mind vying with the livid horror preceding 
a midnight thunderstorm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the 
first, and incomparably the lightest evil; misfortune, bodily constitution, 
hell, and myself, have formed a "quadruple alliance" to guarantee the 
other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five 
books of Moses, and half-way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I 
sent for my bookljinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo 
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with all the 
elegance of his crafi. 

I would give my best song to my worst enemy — I mean the merit of 
maldng it — to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, 
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the Banks of the Devon, which present 
with my best wishes to Charlotte. The Ochil-hilh ^ you shall probably 
have next week for )ourself. None of )our fine speeches ! — R. li. 



No. LXXIX. 
TO CHARLES HAY, ESQ., 

ADVOCATE. 

[Enclosing verses on the death of the Lord President, Robert Dundas of 
Armiston, who died Uecember ij, 17S7.] 

Sir, 

The enclosed ])oem was written in consequence of your suggestion 
last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of 
next morning's sleep, but did not please me ; so it lay by, an ill-digested 

' The song in honour of Miss Chalmers, beginning, " Where braving angry winter's storms." 
{_Pase 198.) 



364 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

eftbrt, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush. These kind of sub- 
jects are much hackne)ed ; and, besides, the waiUngs of the rh}ming tribe 
over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character 
for sincerity. Tliese ideas damped my muse's lire; howexer, I have done 
the best I could, and, at all events, it gives me an opportunity of declaring 
that 1 have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 

R B. 



No. LXXX. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, 19M Dec, 17S7. 

1 BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is not 
yet cold since 1 read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer 
than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I crossed the 
room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my bardship, not 
on poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best leg with an air, and 
with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May frog leaping 
across the newly-harrowed ridge, enjo)ing the fragrance of the refreshed 
earth after the long-expected shower ! 

I can't say 1 am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path 
that meagre, squalid, tamine-faced spectre Poxerty ; attended as he 
always is by iron-fisted Oi^pression, and leering Contempt ; but I have 
sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already, and 
still my motto is — I dare! My worst enemy is moi-ineiiie. I lie so 
miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, light- 
armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim, 
caprice and passion, and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wisdom, 
prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow, that I am almost in 
a state of perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat. There are just 
two creatures I would en\'y — a horse in his wild state traversing the 
forests of Asia, or an o3Ster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The 
one has not a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor 
fear. R. B.-" 



No. LXXXI. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[In the rest of the letters between Mrs. M'Lehose and Burns, she signs herself 
Clarinda, and he Sylvaiulcr.] 

Friday Evening {December 21]. 

I 15EG yotn- pardon, mv dear "Clarinda," for the Iragment scrawl I sent 
you yesterday. I really do not know what I wrote. A gentleman for 
whose character, abilities, and critical knowledge I have the highest 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 365 



veneration, called in just as 1 had hoijun the second sentence, and I would 
not make the porter wait. I read to niv much-respected friend several of 
my own ba,i;atelles, and, amon<T otlicrs, your Hncs, which I had copied out. 
He betjan some criticisms on them as on tlic oilier pieces, when 1 informed 
him they were the work of a young lady in this town, which, I assure you, 
made him stare. iMy learned friend seriously protested that he did not 
believe any young woman in Edinburgh was capaljle of such lines; and 
if you know anything of Professor Ciregory, you will neither doubt of his 
abilities nor his sincerity. 1 do love you, if possible, still better for hav- 
ing so fine a taste and turn for poesy. I have again gone wrong in my 
usual unguarded way, but you may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, 
or any other tame Dutch expression you please in its pl.ice. 1 believe 
there is no hokling converse, or carrying on correspondence, with an amia- 
ble woman, much less a ^t^lorious/y aniidblc fine iuoi/kui., without some mix- 
ture of that delicious passion whose most devoted slave I have more than 
once had the honour of being. But why be hurt or oiTended on that 
account.'' Can no honest man have a prc-possession for a tine woman, but 
he must run his head against an intrigue? 'lake a little of the tender 
witchcraft of love, and add to it the generous, the honourable .sentiments 
of manly friendship, and I know but oitc more delightful morsel, which few, 
few in any rank ever taste. Such a composition is like adding cream to 
strawberries : it not onlv gives the fruit a more elegant richness, but has a 
peculiar deliciousness of its own. 

1 enclose you a few lines I comi)osed on a late melancholy occasion.^ 
I will not give above five or six copies of it at all, and I would be hurt if 
any friend shoidd give any copies without my consent. 

You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea of Arcadian names in a 
conjmerce of this kind), how much store I have set by the hopes of your 
future friendship. I do not know if you have a just idea of my character, 
but I wish you to see me as I am. I am, as most jieople of my trade are, 
a strange VVill-o'-wisp being; the victim, too frequently, of much impru- 
dence and many follies. My great constituent elements are piide and 
pdssion. The first I have enneavoured to humanise into integrity and 
honour; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm 
in love, religion, or friendship — either of them, or all together, as I hap- 
pen to be inspired. ''Tis true I never saw you but once; but how much 
acquaintance did I form with you in that once! Do not think I flatter 
you, or have a design upon you, Clarinda: 1 have too much pride for the 
one, and too little cold contrivance for the other; but of all God's 
creatures I ever could appro:ich in the beaten way of my acquaintance, 
you struck me with the (leepest, the strongest, the most permanent im- 
pression. I say the most permanent, because I know myself well, and 
how far I can i)romise eithcM- in my prepossessions or powers. Why are 
you unhajjpy? And why are so many of our fellow-creatures, unworthy to 
belong to the same s])ccies with you, blest with all they can wish? Vou 
have a hand all benevolent to give: why were you denied the pleasure? 

' Probably the verses on the Death of the Lord President. 



366 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

Yon have a heart formed — gloriously formed — for all the most refined 
luxuries of love: why was that heart ever wrung? Oh Clarinda! shall 
we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state of being, where the lavish 
hand of plenty shall minister to the highest wish of benevolence, and 
where the chill north wind of prudence shall never blow over the flowery 
fields of enjoyment? If we do not, man was made in vain! I deserve most 
of the unhappy hours that have lingered over my head ; they were the 
wages of my labour : but what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, stole 
upon the confidence of unmistrusting busy tate, and dashed your cup of 
life with undeserved sorrow? 

Let me know how long your stay will be out of town ; I shall count the 
hours till you inform me of your return. Cursed etiquette forbids your 
seeing me just now ; and so soon as 1 can walk I must bid talinburgh 
adieu. Lord ! why was I born to see misery which I cannot relieve, and 
to meet with friends whom I cannot enjoy? I look back with the pang of 
unavailing avarice on my loss in not knowing }ou sooner: all last winter, 
these three months past, what luxury of intercourse have I not lost! Per- 
haps, though, 'twas better for my peace. You see I am either above or 
incapable of dissimulation. I believe it is want of that particular genius. 
I despise design, because I want either coolness or wisdom to be capable 
of it. I am interrupted. Adieu, my deai' Clarinda ! 

Sylvander. 



No. LXXXII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

My dear Clarinda, 

Your last verses have so delighted me, that I have copied them in 
among some of my own most valued pieces, which I keep sacred lor my 
own use. l^o let me have a few now and then. 

Did you. Madam, know what I feel when you talk of your sorrows! 

Good God ! that one who has so much worth in the sight of heaven, 
and is so amiable to her fellow-creatures, should be so unhappy! 1 can]t 
venture out for cold. My limb is vastly better; but I have not any use of 
it without my crutches. Monday, for the first time. I dine at a- neigh- 
bour's, next door. As soon as t can go so far, even in a coach, my first 
visit shall be to you. Write me when you leave town, and immediately 
when you return ; and I earnestly pray your stay may lie short. You 
can't imagine how miserable you made me when you hinted to me not 
to write. Farewell. 

Sylvander. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 367 

No. LXXXIII. 
TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, 

lUVINE. 

[Richard Brown is the " very noble character, but hapless son of misfortune," 
to wlioiu Hums refers in his memoir as having had a great inlluence on liis youth.] 

Mv DEAR SlU EDiNiiunnii, 30M Dec, 1787. 

i li;ive met with few things in lite which h;ive given me more 
plcasur'^; than Fortune's l<in(lness to vou since those clays in wiiich we 
met in the vale of misery; as 1 can honestly say, that I never knew a man 
who more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wislicd it. I 
have been much indebted since that lime to your story and sentiment for 
steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty decent sliare. 
My WilkV-wisj) fate vou know : do you recollect a Sunday we spent to- 
gether in Eglinton Woods? You told me, on my repeating some verses 
to you, that you wondered I could resist the temi>tation of sending verses 
of such merit to a magazine. It was from this remark I derived that idea 
of my own pieces which encouraged me to enileavour at the character 
of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be two or three months at 
home. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, 1 shall return to Ayr- 
shire, and we shall meet; "and faith I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet 
cast out ! " 

1 have much to tell you " of men, their manners, and their ways ; " per- 
haps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to Mrs. 
I5ro\vn. There, I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found sub- 
stantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered, but not 
a ditTerent man: the wild, bold, generous young fellow composed into the 
steady aflectionate husband, the fond and careful parent. For me, I am 
just the same Will-o'-wisp being I used to be. About the first and fourth 
quarters of the moon, I generally set in for the trade wind of wisdom; 
but about the full and change, I am the luckless victim of mad tor- 
nadoes, which blow me into chaos. All-mighty love still reigns and revels 
in my bosom ; and I am at this moment ready to hang myself for a young 
iMlinburgh widow, who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal 
than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned arrow 
of the savage African. My Highland dirk, that used to hang beside my 
crutches, I have gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of 
which I cannot command, in case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may 
guess of her wit by the following verses which she sent me the other 
day. . . . 

My best compliments to our friend Allan. Adieu ! 

R. B 



36» THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. LXXXIV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Mrs. Al'Lcliose, as is evident from the allusions in Burns's letters, repeatedly 
sent him verses of her own composition. The lines referred to in the following 
letter will give a fair idea of her poetical gifts. 

" Talk not of Love— it gives me p.iin, 
Kor Love has been my foe: 
He bnuiid n.o in an iron chain, 
As.d plunged nie deep in woe. 

" But Friendship's pure and lasting joys 
My heart w.is form'd to prove — 
The wortliy object be of those. 
But never talk of Love! 

"The hand of Friendship I accept — 
May Honour be our guard! 
Virtue our intercourse direct, 
Her smites our dear reward."] 

\After New Year's day, 1788.] 

You are right, my dear Clarinda: a friendly correspondence goes for 
nothing, except one write their undisguised sentimcnLs. Yours please me 
for their intrinsic merit, as well as because they are voiirs, which, I assure 
you, is to me a high recommendation. Your religious sentiments. Madam, 
1 revere. If you have, on some suspicious evidence, from some lying 
oracle learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly important a matter as 
real religion, you have, my Clarinda, much misct)nstruLd your friend; — 
"I am not mad, most noble Festus ! " Have you ever met a perfect 
character? Do we not sometimes rather exchange faults than get rid of 
them? For instance, I am perhaps tired with and shocked at a life too 
ranch the prey of giddy inconsistencies and thoughtless follies; by degrees 
I grow sober, prudent, and statedly pious — 1 say statedly, because the 
most unaffected devotion is not at all inconsistent witli my tirst character — 
I join the world in congratulating myself on the happy change. But let 
me pry more narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bottom, anything of a 
secret pride in these endowments and emendations? Have 1 nothing of a- 
Presbyterian sourness, a hypocritical severity, when I survey my less regu- 
lar neighbours? In a word, have I missed ail tho-;e nameless and number- 
less moditications of indistinct selfishness, which are so near oiu" own e}es, 
we can scarcely bring them within the sphere of our vision, and which 
the known spotless cambric of our character hides from the ordinary 
observer ? 

My definition of worth is short: trutli and humanity respecting our 
fellow-creatures; reverence antl humility in the presence of that Being, 
my Creator and Preserver, and who. 1 have e\'ery reason to believe, will 
one day be my Judge. The first part of my definition is the creature of 
unbiassed instinct; the last is the child of after reflection. Where 1 
found these two essentials, I would gently note, and slightly mention^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 369 

any attendant flaws — flaws, the marks, the consequences of human 
nature. 

I can easily enter into the sublime pleasures that your strong imagination 
and keen sens'ijiiity m.ust derive from religion, particularly if a little in 
the shade of misfortune ; but 1 own I cannot, without a marked grudge, 
see Heaven totally engross so amiable, so charming a woman, as my 
friend Clarinda ; and should be very well pleased at a chnii/islaiice that 
would jHit it in the power of somebody (happy somebody!) to divide her 
attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness of an earthly attachment. 

\'ou will not easily persuade me that you have not a grammatical 
knowledge of the English language. So far from being inaccurate, 
you are elegant beyond any woman of my acquaintance, except one, 
whom 1 wish you knew. 

\'our last verses to me have so delighted me, that I have got an excellent 
old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall see them in print in the 
Sto/s Musical Afiise/n/i, a work publishing by a friend of mine in this 
town. I want four stanzas; you gave me but three, and on^. of them 
alluded to an expression in my former letter; so 1 have taken your two 
first verses, with a slight alteration in the second, and have added a 
third ; but you must hclj) me to a fourth. Here they are : the latter half 
of the first stanza would have been worthy of Sappho; I am in raptures 
with it. 

" Talk not of Love, it gives me pain, 
For Love has been my foe : 
He bound me with an iron chain. 
And sunk mc deep in woe. 

" 15ut Friendship's pure and lasting joys 
My heart was form'd to prove: 
There, welcome, win and wear the prize. 
Hut never talk of love." 

Your friendship much can make me blest, 
O why that bliss destroy? 
[only] 
Why urge the odious one request, 
[will] 
You know I must deny? 

The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there was a 
sliglu inaccuracy in your rhyme. The third I only offer to your choice, 
and h.ive left two words for your determination. The air is " The Banks 
of Spcy," and is most beautiful. 

To-morrow evening I intend taking a chair, and paying a visit at Park 
I'lace to a much-valued old friend. If I could be sure of finding you at 
home (and I will send one of the chairmen to call), I would spend from 
five to six o'clock with you, as I go past. I cannot do more at this time, 
as I have something on my hand that hurries me much. I propose giving 

you the first call, my old friend the second, and Miss , as I return 

home. Do not i)reak any engagement for me, as I will spend another 
evening with you at any rale before I leave town. 

Do not teli me that you are joleased wlien your friends inform you of 
your faults. I am ignorant what they are ; but I am sure they must 



37° Til!'- I ETTERS OF nVRNS. 



be such cvanosceiit tiillcs, comijarcd witli your personal and mental 
aci'oinplishnu'iits, that 1 would despise tiie unj^eiieious narrow soui who 
would notice any shadow of iniperlections you may seem to have any 
otiier way tiian in the most delicate a<i;reeal)k' raillery. Coarse minds arc 
not aware how nuuli they injure the Ueeniy-teeiinj; tie of bosom-friendship, 
when, in flieir foolish ollieiousness, they mention what nol)oiiy cares tor 
recollect ini;'. People of nice sensibility and generous minds have a certain 
intrinsic disunity, th.it tires at beini; trilletl with, or lowered, or even too 
nearly approaciied. 

Vou neeil make no apology for lon<;' letters: I am even wilii you. 
Many happy new-years to yt)u, charming Clarinda! 1 can't dissemble, 
wi-re it to shun perdition, lie who .sees you as I have done, and does 
not love you, deserves to be damned for his stu])idity! He who loves 
you, and would injure you, tleservcs to be doubly clamnecl for his villany! 
Allien. 

Sylvandrr. 

P.S. — What would vou think of this for a fourth stanza? 

Ydiir iIkuikIh, if love must l\.irlHir llicic, 

Coiu'.cdI it ill th:U lluiu>;lit, 
Niir cause iiu.' friini my Ihisdiii tear, 

riic very IViciul 1 boii^lil. 



No. lAXXV. 

TO CLARIND.V. 

[Refcrcrencc is here nindc to llie second iiitervicw helwcen Hums and Mrs, 
M'Lchosc; aloiii; willi llu- lelliT lie si-nl iiis aululiioj^rapliy. j 

SoMic days, .some nights, nay. some lioiirs, like the " ten rii;hteons 
persons in Sodom," save the n-sl of tiie vapid, tiresome, miserable months 
and years of life. One of these hours my dear Clarintla blest me with 
yesternight. 

" tine wollsiKMil luuir, 

III sucli a toiulcr ciriiunsiaiuc for fiioiuls, 

Is better tliaii an aj;c of common time! " — '1'iiomson. 

My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his manly fortitude in support- 
ing what cannot be remedied — in short, the wild broken fragments of a 
noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was a 
favourite hero of mine. 

1 mentioned to vou my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account of my 
lite: it is imtli, e\ery word of it, and will give vou a just idea of the man 
whom you hive honoured with your friendshii). 1 am atVaid \ou will 
hardly be ;d>le to make sense (xt" so torn a i)iece. Your verses 1 shall nurse 
on, deliciouslv, as I ga/.e on your image in my mind's eye, in my heart's 
core : they will be in time enough for a week to come. 1 am truly happy 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 2>V- 



your headache is better. Oh, how can pain or evil l)e so daringly unfeel- 
ing, cruelly savage as to wound so nt)ble a mind, so lovely a form ! 

My little fellow is all my namesake. Write me soon. My every, 
strongest good wishes attend you, L'larinda ! 

Sylvan DKR. 

I know not what I have written, I am pestered with people around me. 



No. Lxxxvr. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[A tender rebuke from Clarinda about his want of religion drew from him this 
reply.] 

Tuesiiay .Vi\-/tl [Jan. S?]. 

I AM delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm for 
religion. Those of either sex, but particularly the female, who are luke- 
warm in that most important of all things, "O my soul, come not thou 
into their secrets ! " 1 feel myself dee})ly interested in your good opinion, 
and will lay before you the outlines of my belief. He who is our Author 
and Preserver, and will one day be our Judge, must l)e (not for His sake in 
the way of duty, but from the native impulse of our hearts) the object of 
our reverential awe and grateful adoration : He is almighty and all- 
bounteous, we are weak and dependent; hence prayer and every other 

sort of devotion. " Me is not willing that any should perish, but that 

all should come to everlasting life ; " consequently it must be in every 
one's power to embrace His otVer of " everlasting life ; " otherwise He could 
not, in justice, condemn those who did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, 
and governed by purity, truth, and charity, though it does not i/ien't 
heaven, yet is an absolutely necessary ])rerec|uisite, without which heaven 
can neither be obtained nor enjoyed ; and, by Divine promise, such a mind 
shall never fail of attaining "everlasting life:" hence the im[)ure, the 
deceiving, and the uncharitable extrude themselves from eternal bliss, by 
their unfitness for enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate 
administration of all this, for wise and good ends known to Himself, into 
the hands of Jesus Christ — a great personage, whose relation to Him we 
cannot comprehend, but whose relation to us is [that of] a guide and 
Saviour; and who, except for our own obstinacy and misconduct, will 
bring us all through various ways, and by various means, to bliss at last. 

These are my tenets, my lovely friend ; and which, I think, cannot be 
well disputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of 
Jamie Deans's grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire : " Lord, grant that we 
may lead a gude life ! for a gude life makes a gude end ; at least it helps 
weel." 

I am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have found in my 
packet. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and may 
guess at what I am likely to be. 1 too may say, " Talk not of love," &c., 



372 'I'l.'E LETl'F.RS OF BURXS. 



for indeed lie has " ])luimed me deep in woe!" Not tliat I ever saw a 
woman wlio pleased unexeeptionahiy, as my Clarinda elej^antly says, "in 
the eompanion, the friend, and the mistress." One indeed I could except 
— om', before passion threw its mists over my discernment, I knew the 
first of women! Her name is indelibly written in my iieart's core — but I 
dare not look in on it — a degree of agony would be the conseciuence. 
Oh, thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-makini; demon, who presidest over 
that frantic jiassion — thou mayst, thou dost poison my peace, but thou 
shalt not ta.int my honour — I would not, for a single moment, give an 
asylum to the most distant imagination, that woukl shadow the faintest 
outline of a sellish gratification, at the expense of her whose liappiness is 

twisted with the threads of my existence. May she be as ha])py as she 

deserves! And if my tenderest, faithfulest friendship can add to her 
bliss, I shall at least have one solitl mine of enjoyment in my bosom. 
Do>rt ff/icss at t/it'sc r(J7/iiigs ! 

I watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed.' It has 
been a day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two hours' bout 
after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common 

with me but the i)ort. Oin' 'Tis now "witching time of night;" 

and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchant- 
ments and spells ; for I canH look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I 
don't care for to-morrow's criticisms on it. 

You are by this time tast asleep, Clarinda; may good angels attend and 
guard you as constantly as my good wishes do ! 

" HlmiUv, whiih, whctlior wakluv; or .islccp, 
Shot lorlh pLHUiliar graces." 

John Milton, I wish thv soul better rest than I exjiect on my pillow 
to-night. Oh for a little of the cart-horse part of human nature I iiood- 
night, my deiu'cst Clarinda ! 

SyL\ANUER. 

No. LXXXVII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Clarinda writes to say she cannot imagine w lio is the fnir one ho alhiilcs to in 
his last epistle. She first tlimight of his Jean, tluuis^li uncertain wlictlur slio lias 
Ills " teniierest, faillifulest friemlship.'' She cannot understand tliat boniuo lassie -^ 
refusing him after such ])roofs ot" love; and admires liim for his continued fondness 
towarils licr. Siie promises again to give liim a nod at his window.] 

riiiirsiiny IVoott [Jan. n>?]. 

I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda ; but you don't look to the proper 
story for a jjoet's lodging, 

" Wlicie Speculation roosted near tlio sky." 

I could almost have thrown myself over for ver\' vexation. Why didn't 
you look higher.? It has spoilt my peace for this day. To be so near my 

' Mrs. M'Lehosc had promised to pass through his Square ahout two in the afternoon, and 
give him a nod if he were at the window of liis room and she could discover it. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 373 



charming Clarinda; to miss her look while it was searching for me! I 
am SUIT the soul is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed itself into 
an infl.unmalory fever. I am sorry for your little hoy : do let me know 
to-morrow how he is. 

You iiave converted me, Clarinda (1 siiail love that n.une while 1 live: 
there is heavenly music in it!). Kooth and Amelia 1 know well. Your 
.sentiments on that subject, as they are on every subject, are just and noble. 
"To be fetlinj^ly alive to kindness and to unkindness" is a cliarining 
fem.de characti'r. 

What 1 .said in my List letter, the powers of fuddlino sociality only know 
for me. IJy yours, I understand my gootl star has bi-en partly in my 
hori/on when I jjot wild in my reveries. Had that evil planet, which has 
almost all my Hie shed its baleful rays on my devoted head, been as usual 
in its zenith, I had certaiidy blabbed- something that would have pointed 
out to you the dear objt-ct of my tenderest iViendship, and, in spite of me, 
something more. Had that fatal information escaped me, and it was 
merely ciiance or kind stars that it did not, I had been undone. You 
would never have written me, except, perhaps, once more. Oh, [ could 
curse circumstances ! and the coarse tie of human laws which keeps fast 
whit common sense would loose, and which bars that hai)piness itself 
cannot give — ha|)iiiness which otherwise love and honour would warrant! 
But hold — I shall make no more "hairbreadth 'scapes." 

My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My likings are both 
strong and eternal. 1 told you I had but one male friend: I have but two 
female. 1 should have a third, but she is surrounded by the blandish- 
ments of flattery and courtship. Her I register in my heart's core by 
Peggy Chalmers: Miss Nimmo can tell you how divine she is. She is 
worthy of a place in the same bosom with mv Clariiula. That is the 
■highest compliment 1 can pay her. Farewell, Clarinda ! Remember 

SVLVANUEK. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
TO CL.\KINI).\. 

Sninrdny Moruing. 

Y(H'K thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may 
perhaps distrust me when I say 'tis also my favourite topic; but mine is 
the religion of the bosom. 1 hate the very idea of a controversial di- 
vinity; as I lirmly believe, that every honest, upright man, of whatever 
sect, will be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to hint, 
contain censure, e.xcejit you want an occasion to break with me, don't send 
them. I have a litt'e inhrmity in my disi)osition, that where I fondly love, 
or highly esteem, I cannot bear reproach. 

" Reverence thyself" is a sacred maxim, and I wish to cherish it. I 
thiid< I told you Lord Holingbroke's saying to Swift — " Adieu, dear .Swift, 
with all thy faults, I love thee entirely; make an elforl to love me with all 
mine." A glorious sentiment, and without which there can be no friend- 



374 THE LE T TERS tF B URNS. 

ship. I do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, Clarinda — you merit 
it all. Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimulation. I could fondly love you : 
judge, then, what a maddening sting your reproach would be. " Oh I 
have sins to Heaven, but none to you!'''' With what pleasure would I 
meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet the Fly. I hope to be able 
to see you on /ooi, about the middle of next week. 

I am interrupted — perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell me — but 
I won't anticipate blame. Oh Clarinda! did you know how dear to me is 
your look of kindness, your smile of approbation, you would not, either in 
prose or verse, risk a censorious remark. 

" Curst be the verse, how well so'er it flow, 
That tends to make one worthy man my foe ! " 

Sylvander. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

You talk of weeping, Clarinda : some involuntary drops wet your lines 
as I read them. Offend me, my dearest angel! You cannot offend me — 
you never offended me. If you had ever given me the least shadow of 
offence, so pardon me, my God, as I forgive Clarinda. I have read yours 
again ; it has blotted my paper. Though I find your letter has agitated 
me into a violent headache, I shall take a chair and be with you about 
eight. A friend is to be with us at tea, on my account, which hinders me 
from coming sooner. Forgive, my dearest Clarinda, my unguarded ex- 
pressions. For Heaven's sake, forgive me, or I shall never be able to 



bear my own mind. 



Your unhappy 

Sylvander. 



No. XC. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[After a third interview Clarinda owns her high appreciation of Eurns's char- 
acter: "Our last interview has raised you very high in mine [esteem]. I have 
met with few, indeed, of your sex who understood deiicncy in such circumstances." 
Still she fears she may be the victim of her sensibility.] 

Monday Even, ii o'clock. 

Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda? To-day I expected it; and 
before supper, when a letter to me was announced, my heart danced with 
rapture : but behold, it was some fool, who had taken it into his head to 
turn poet, and made me an offering of the firstfruits of his nonsense. " It 
is not poetry, but prose run mad." Did I ever repeat to you an epigram I 
made on a iVlr. Elphinstone, who has given a translation of Martial, a 



THE LE T TEA'S OF B URNS. 375 



famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elpliinstone can only equal his prose- 
notes. I was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaintance, waiting 
somebody; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and asked my opinion of 
it; I begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did — 

TO MR. ELPHINSTONE, ETC. 

Oh thou, whom poesy abhors 1 
Whom prose has turned out of doors! 
Heard'st thou yon groan? — proceed no further! 
'Twas laurelled Martial calling murther! 

I am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday evening. 
Next week I must sing — 

The night is my departing night, 

The morn's the day I maun awa"; 
There's neither friend nor foe o' mine 

But wishes that I were awa' ! 
What I hae done for lack o' wit, 

I never, never can reca'; 
1 hope ye're a' my friends as yet — 

Gude night, and joy be wi' you a'! 

If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier; but I would 
not purchase the dearest gratification on earth, if it must be at your 
expense in worldly censure, far less inward peace. 

I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of inco- 
herence. The only //;//// (a sad word with poets and critics !) in my ideas 
is Clarinda. There my heart " reigns and revels ! " 

" What art thou. Love? whence are those charms. 

That thus thou bear'st an universal rule? 
For thee the soldier quits his arms, 

The king turns slave, the wise man fool. 
In vain we chase thee from the field, 

And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke: 
Next tide of blood, alas, we yield. 

And all those high resolves are broke ! " 

I like to have quotations for every occasion. They give one's ideas so 
pat, and save one the trouble of finding expression adequate to one's 
feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic 
genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c., an embodied 
form in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely 
of his Muse — 

" Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe. 
Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so." 

My limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up and down stairs 
often without my staif. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my 
own legs to dinner. It is only next street. Adieu ! 

Sylvander. 



3 7^ THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 



No. XCI. 
TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Evening {Jan. '5?]. 

That you have faults, my Clariiida, I never doubted; but I knew not 
where thev existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark tlian 
ever. Oh Clarinda! why will you wound my soul by hinting that last 
night must have lessened my opinion of you? True, I was "behind the 
scenes" with you; but what did 1 see? A bosom glowing with honour 
and benevolence ; a mind ennobled l)y genius, informed and refined by 
education and reflection, and exalted by native religion, genuine as in the 
climes of iioaven ; a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friend- 
ship, love, and pity. These I saw: 1 saw the noblest immortal soul 
creation ever showed me. 

1 looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter; and am vexed that 
you are complaining. I have not cauglit you so tar wrong as in your 
idea, that the commerce you iiave with one friend hurts you if you cannot 
tell every tittle of it to another. Why liave so injurious a suspicion of a 
good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the sacred 
inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion, can be anything else 
than an object of His divine ajiprobation? 

1 have mentioned in some of my Ibrmer scrawls, Saturday evening next. 
Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oil, my angel ! how soon must 
we part! and when can we meet again? 1 look forward on the horrid 
interval with teart'ul eyes. What have 1 lost by not knowing you sooner! 
I fear, I fear my accjuaintaince witii you is too short, to make that lasting 
impression on your heart I could wish. 

Sylvanuer. 



No. XCII. 
TO CL.VRINDA. 

Sunday iVigtit [yan. zo?]. 

The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old indisposi-- 
tion to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain before me 
ail this evening to write to my dear Clarinda ; but 

" Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to waves." 

I cursed them in my soul : they sacrilegiously disturb my meditations 
on her who holds my heart. What a creature is man ! A little alarm last 
night and to-day that I am mortal, has made such a revolution in my 
spirits! there is no philosophy, no divinity, comes half so home to the 
mind. I have no idea of the courage that braves Heaven. 'Tis the wild 
ravings of an imaginary hero in Bedlam. I can no more, Clarinda; I can 
scarce hold up my head ; but I am happy you don't know it, you would 
be so uneasy. 

SVL\'ANDER. 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 377 

Monday Mornitit^. 
I am, my lovely fiioiid, niiiili InMlor tliis nioniing, on the whole; but I 
have a horrid languor on my spirits — 

"Sick of the worUl ami all its joy, 
My soul in piiiiiii; sadness mourns: 
Dark scenes of woe my mind employ, 
The past and present ni their turns." 

Have you ever met with a saying of the great and likewise good Mr. Locke, 
author of the famous J^ssay on the liiiiinin Undcrstaitdiiini? He wrote a 
letter to a friend, directing it " Not to i)e delivereil till after my decease." 
It ended thus — " 1 know you loved me when living, and will preserve my 
memory now I am dead. All the use to be made of it is — that this life 
affortls no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of having done well, 
and the hopes of another life. Atlieu ! 1 le.ive my !)est wisiies with you. 

— J. LOCKK. " 

Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life? I think I may. 
Thou Almighty Preserver of men ! 'I'hy tViendship, which hitherto 1 have 
too nuich neglected, to .secure it shall all the future days and nights of my 
lite be my steady care ! The idea of my Clarinda follows : — 

" Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
Wliere, mix'd wuli God's, her loved idea lies." 

But I fear inconstancy, the consecjuent imperfection of human weakness. 
Shall I meet with a friendship that delies years of absence, and the chances 
and changes of fortune? I'erhaps " such things are. " One honest man I 
have great hopes from, that way; but who, except a romance writer, would 
thi^ik on a love that could promise for life, in spite of distance, absence, 
chance, and change; and that, too, with slender hopes of fruition? For 
my own part, I can say to myself in both requisitions, " Thou art the 
man;" I dare, in cool resolve, I dare declare myself that friend and that 
lover. If womankind is capable of such things, Clarinda is. I trust that 
she is ; and feel I shall be miserable if she is not. There is not one 
virtue which gi\es worth, or one sentiment which does hont)ur to the sex, 
that she does not pos.sess superior to any woman 1 ever .saw : her e.xalted 
mind, aided a little perhaps by her situation, is, 1 think, capable of that 
nobly-romantic love-enthusiam. 

May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel? The next Wed- 
nesday again will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us' both. 1 tremble for 
censorious remarks for your sake; but in e.xtraordinary cases, mav not 
usual and useful precautions be a little dispensed with ? ' Tiu-cc evenings, 
three swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past — I dare 
not calculate the future. 1 shall call at Miss Nimmo's to-nu)ii-ow evening; 
'twill be a farewell call. 

I have written out my last sheet of paper, so 1 am reeluced to my last 
half-sheet. What a strange, mysterious faculty is that thing called imagi- 
nation ! We have no ideas almost at all of another world ; but 1 have often 
amu.sed myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be en- 
joyed by small alterations — alterations that we can fully enter to \_sic'\, in 



378 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and I just as we 
are at present, tlie same reasoning powers, sentiments, and even desires; 
tlie same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking observation in our 
minds — and imagine our bodies free from pain, and the necessary sup- 
plies for the wants of nature at all times and easily within our reach ; 
imagine further that we were set free from the laws of gravitation which 
bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without inconvenience, 
through all the yet unconjectured bounds of creation — what a life of bliss 
snould we lead in our mutual pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our 
mutual enjoyment of friendship and love ! 

I see you laughing at my foiry fancies, and calling me a voluptuous 
Mahometan; but I am certain I should be a happy creature, beyond any- 
thing we call bliss here below ; nay, it would be a paradise congenial to 
you too. Don't you see us hand in hand, or rather my arm about your 
lovely waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the fixed stars; 
or surveying a comet flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would 
mark the passing pomp of a travelling monarch ; or in a shady bower of 
Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to love and mutual con\erse, rely- 
ing honour, and revelling endearment — while the most exalted strains of 
poesy and harmony would be the ready, spontaneous language of our 
souls ? Devotion is the favourite employment of your heart, so is it of mine ; 
what incentives then to, and jiowers for reverence, gratitude, faith, and 
hope, in all the fervours of adoration and praise to that Being whose un- 
searchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so pervaded, so inspired every 
sense and feeling ! By this time, I daresay, you will be blessing the neglect 
of the maid that leaves me destitute of paper. 

Sylvan DER. 



No. XCIII. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Now for that wayward unfortunate thing, m3'self. I have broke meas- 
ures with Creech, and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He. 
replied in terms of ch:istisement, and promised me upon his honour that 1 
should have the account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, and yet' I have 
not heard a word from him. Clod have mercy on me ! a poor damned, 
incautious, duped, unfortunate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim of 
rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, and 
bedlam passions. 

"I wish that I were dead, but Tm no' like to die!" I had lately "a 
hair-breadth \scape in th' imminent deadly breach" of love, too. Thank 
my stars, I got off heart-whole, "waur fleyed (worse frightened) than 
hurt." — Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint ... I fear I am something like — undone 
— but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride, and unshrinking reso- 
lution; accompany me through this, to me, miserable world! You must 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 379 

not desert me. Your friendship I tliink I can count on, though I should 
date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, 
1 reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn-hope. Seriously, though, 
life presents me with but a melancholy path : but — my limb will soon be 
sound, and I shall struggle on. — R. B. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, January i\, 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room. 
They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me unfit 
to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer 
resigns a commission; for I would not take in any poor ignorant wretch, 
by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a mis- 
erable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet 
— a little more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want bravery for the warfare 
of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or 
cunning to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the 
middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh; and soon after I shall pay my 
grateful duty at Dunlop House. — R. B. 



No. XCV. 
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRY. 

[It had lonjj been a favourite project with Burns to get a place in the Excise. 
Through the influence of the friends appealed to in the following le'.ters, his name 
was placed on tlie list of candidates to be appointed as vacancies occurred.] 

Sir, 

When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole Hou.se, 
I did not so soon think of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Shak- 
spcare, asked old Kent why he wished to be in his service, he answers: 
" Because you have that in your face which I would fain call master." For 
some such reason. Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. \ou know, I 
dare .say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be admitted an 
officer of Excise. I have, according to form, been examined by a super- 
visor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a request for an order for 
instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too much 
need a patronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity 



380 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with anything like busi- 
ness, except manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my late appearance on the stage of life 
in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging some filial and 
fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that miserable 
manner which I have lived to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws 
of a jail ; whence death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescued 
him. 

I know. Sir, that to need your goodness is to have a claim on it ; may I, 
therefore, beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be ap- 
pointed to a division — where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try to 
support that independence so dear to my soul, but which has been too 
often so distant from my situation.'' — R. B. 



No. XCVI. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

[This appeal was not successful in obtaining Lord Glencairn's patronage in the 
matter.] 

My Lord, 

I know your lordship will disapprove of my ideas in a request I am 
going to make to you ; but I have weighed, long and serious)}- weighed, 
my situation, my hopes, and turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my scheme 
if I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get into the Excise : 1 am told 
that your lordship's interest will easily procure me the grant from the com- 
missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and goodness, which have 
already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, enbolden me 
to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little 
tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters, 
from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest 
gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he will probably - 
weather out tlie remaining seven years of it ; and after the assistance 
which I have given, and will give him, to keep the family together, I think, 
by my guess, 1 shall have rather better than two hundred pounds ; and 
instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at present to find, a farm 
that I can certainly live by, with so small a stock, I shall lodge this sum in 
a banking-house, a sacred deposit, excepting only the calls of uncommon 
distress or necessitous old age. 

These, my lord, are my views : I have resolved from the maturest delib- 
eration ; and now I am fixed. I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my 
resolve into execution. Your lordship's patronage is the strength of my 
hopes; nor have I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed my heart sinks 
within me at the idea of applying to any other of the great who have 
honoured me with their countenance. I am ill-qualified to dog the heels 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 381 

of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and tremble nearly as 
much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold denial ; but to your 
lordship I have not only the honor, the comfort, but the pleasure of being 
Your lordship's much and deeply indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. XCVII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[The next letter to Clarinda was written on the day following their fourth 
meeting.] 

Thursday Morning [January 24?]. 

" Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain." 

1 have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for native 
genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and the 
sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose personal charms 
have few, very, very few parallels among her sex ; why, or how she should 
fall to the blessed lot of a poor hairum-scairum poet whom Fortune had 
kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever she was in 
ill-humour. One time I conjectured, tliat as Fortune is the most capricious 
jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm 
of whim, to raise the poor devil out of the mire, where he had so often and 
so conveniently served her as a stepping-stone, and given him the most 
gloi'ious boon she ever had in her gift, merely for the maggot's sake, to see 
.how his fool head and his fool heart will bear it. At other times 1 was 
vain enough to think that Nature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, 
had given the coquettish goddess some such hint as, " Here is a paragon of 
female excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never 
was lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again ; you have 
cast her rather in the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of my making; 
among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this masterpiece 
of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind, which no 
woman of any age ever more deserved, and which few rhymsters of this 
age are better able to confer." 

Ezicnitig, 9 o'clock. 

I am here, absolutely so unfit to finish my letter — pretty hearty after a 
bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. I 
have been with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and he has set the song finely. 
I have no distinct ideas of anything, but that I have drunk your healtli 
tv.ice to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in this world. 

Sylvander. 



382 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. XCVIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Mrs. M'Lehose's letter after the last interview shows she was well a'vare of the 
delicate, not to say dangerous footing of her acquaintance with the Poet : " I am 
neither well nor happy to-day : my heart reproaches me for last nighl. If you 
wish Clarinda to regain her peace, determine against everything hut what the 
strictest delicacy warrants. . . . Do not he displeased when I tell you I wish our 
parting was over. At a distance, we shall retain the same heartfelt affection and 
interestedncss in eacli other's concerns; hut ahsence will mellow and restrain 
those vitilent heart agitations which, if cmilinued much longer, would unhinge my 
very soul, and render me unlit for the duties of life."] 

\Friday, February i?J 

Clarinda, my life, j'ou liavc wounded my soul. Can I think of your 
being unhappy, even thougli it be not described in your pathetic elegance 
of language, without being miserable.'' Clarinda, can I bear to be told troin 
you that "you will not see me to-morrow night — that you wish the hour 
of parting were come.'' " Do not let us impose on ourselves by sounds. 
. . . Why, my love, talk to me in such strong terms ; every word of 
which cuts me to the very soul ? You know, a hint, the slightest significa- 
tion of your wish, is to me a sacred command. 

Be reconciled, my angel, to your Cjod, yourself, and me; and I pledge 
you Sylvander's honour — an oath I daresay you will tmst without reserve — 
that you shall never more have reason to complain of his conduct. Now, 
my love, do not wound our next meeting with any averted looks. . . . 
I have marked the line of conduct — a line, I know, exactly to your taste 
— and which I w^ill inviolably keej) ; but do not show you the least inclination 
to make boundaries. Seeming distrust, where you know you may conlide, 
is a cruel sin against sensibility. 

"Delicacy, you know, it was which won me to you at once: take care 
that you do not loosen the dearest, most sacred tie that unites us." 
Clarinda, I would not have stung your soul — I would not have bruised 
your spirit, as that harsh, crucifying "Take care," did mine; no, not to 
have gained heaven ! Let me again appeal to your dear self, if Sylvander, 
even when he seemingly half transgressed the laws of decorum, if he did 
not show more chastised, trembling, faltering delicacy, than the many of 
the world do in keeping these laws? 

Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my peace ! I love to 
madness, and I feel to torture ! Clarinda, how can I forgive myself 
that I have ever touched a single chord in your bosom with pain ! Would 
I do it willingly? Would any consideration, any gratification make me do 
so? Oh, did you love like me, you would not, you could not, deny or put 
oft' a meeting with the man who adores you; wiio would die a thousand 
deaths before he would injure you ; and who must soon bid you a long 
farewell ! 

1 had proposed bringing my bosom friend, Mr. Ainslie, to-morrow 
evening, at his strong request, to sec you ; as he has only time to stay 



with us about ten minutes, for an ena;agement. But I shall hear from you ; 
this afternoon, for mercy's sake ! — tor, till I hear from you, I am wretched. 
Oh, Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, incorporated witli 
my dearest threads of life ! 

Sylvander. 



No. XCIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

I WAS on the way, my love, to meet you (I never do things by halves) 
when I got your card. Mr. Ainslie goes out of town to-morrow morning 
to see a brother of his, who is newly arrived from France. I am deter- 
mined that he and I shall call on you together. So look you, lest I should 
never see to-morrow, we will call on )0u to-night. Maiy' and you may 
put off tea till about seven, at which time, in the Galloway phrase, " an the 
beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale," expect the humblest of 
your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We only propose sta}ing 
naif an hour — "for ought we ken." I could suffer the lash of misery 
eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed of hours like 
yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment — all ^Ise is of the stuff of 
stocks and stones. 

Sylvander. 



No. C. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Sunday Noon. 

I HAVE almost given up the Excise idea. I have been just now to wait 

on a great person. Miss 's friend . Why will great people not 

only deafen us with the din of their equipage, and dazzle us with their fas- 
tidious pomp, but they must also be so very dictatorily wise ? I have been 
questioned like a child about my matters, and blamed and schooled for my 
inscription on the Stirling window. Come, Clarinda! — " Come, curse me 
Jacob ; come, defy me Israel ! " 

Suttdny Night. 

I have been with Miss Nimmo. She is indeed " a good soul," as my 
Clarinda finely says. She has reconciled mc, in a good measure, to the 
world with .'ler friendly prattle. 

Schetki has sent me the song, set to a fine air of his composing. I have 
called the song "Clarinda:" I have carried it about in my pocket, and 
hummed it over all day. 

Monday Morning. 

If my prayers have any weight in heaven, this morning looks in on you 
and finds you in the arms of peace, e.xcept where it is charmingly 

* One o( Mrs. M'Lehose's friends. 



384 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

interrupted by the ardours of devotion. I find so much serenity of mind, 
so much positi\e i)lcasure, so much fearless daring toward the world, 
when I warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation — a consciousness 
of Ahiiighty frienclshi|) — that I am sure I shall soon be an honest 
enthusiast. 

" How are thy servants blest, O Lord! 
How sure is their defence! 
Eternal wisdom is their i^uide, 
Their help Omnipotence! " 

1 am, my dear Madam, yours, 

Sylvander. 



No. CI. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[In her next and several subsequent letters, Clariiula still dwells on Burns's want 
of religious failli. " Sylvaiuler," siie says, " I iielieve nothiiij^ were a more ini- 
praeticable task than to make you feel a little of gemiiue t'lospe! luimilitv. ISelieve 
mo, 1 wisli not to see you deprived of that noble Ine of an exalted mind w hieh 
you eminently possess. Vet a sense of your faults — a feeling sense of them — 
were devt)utly to be wished." Another interview preceded the following letter 
from Sylvander.j 

Sunday Fleming. 

I HAVE just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda ; according to 
my association of ideas, my sentiments of love and friendship, I next 
devote myself to you. Yesternight I was happy — happiness that the 
world cannot give. I kindle at the recollection ; but it is a flame where 
innocence looks smiling on, and honour stands by, a sacred guard. Your 
heart, your fondest wishes, \our dearest thoughts, these are yours to 
bestow : your person is unapproachable by the laws of your country ; and 
he loves not as I do who would make you miserable. 

You are an angel, Clarinda; you are surely no mortal that " the earth 
owns." To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me tar more 
exquisite bliss than the dearest favours that the fairest of the sex, yourself 
excepted, can bestow. 

Sunday Evening. 

You are the constant comixinion of my thoughts. How wretched is the 
condition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and trembling 
under the idea of dreaded vengeance! and wiiat a placid calm, what a 
charming secret enjoyment it gives, to liosom the kind feelings of friend- 
ship and the formal tiirocs of love ! Out upon the temjiest of anger, the 
acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, the sullen frost of louring resent- 
ment, or the corroding poison of withered envy! They eat up the immor- 
tal part of man. If they spent their fury onlv on the unfortunate objects 
of them, it would be something in their favour; but these miserable pas- 
iions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 385 

Thou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love ! do Thou 
give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man's cup ! Is it a 
drauglit of joy ? — warm and op^Mi my heart to share it with cordial, un- 
envying rejoicing. Is it the bitter potion of sorrow ? — melt my heart 
with sincerely sympathetic wo. Above all, do Thou give me the manly 
mind that resolutely exemplifies, in life and manners, those sentiments 
which I would wish to be tiiought to possess. The friend of my soul ; 
there, may I never deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active 
kindness ! Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love ; there, may 
the most sacred inviolate honour, the most faithful kindling constancy, 
ever watch and animate my every thought and imagination ! 

Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of religion — your 
darling topic ? — 

" 'Tit this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 
'Tis. this that gilJs the horrors of our night; 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 
Whe.i friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 
'Tis t'.iis that wards the blowj or stills the smart, 
Disarms af.liction, or repels its dart; 
Withia t!ie breast bids purest rapture rise, 
Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I met with the.se verses very early in life, and was so delighted with 
them, that I have them by me, copied at school. 
Good-night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda! 

Sylvander. 



No. CII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Clarint-la's letters grew more passionate as the correspondence draws to a close. 
"Never," she writes, "were there two liearls formed so exactly alike as ours. At 
all events, Sylvander, the storms of life will cjuickly pass, and 'one unhounded 
spring encircle all.' Love, there, is not a crime. I charge you to meet me there. 
Oh Cod ! I must lay down my pen." Mr. Robert Chambers says he has heard 
Clarinda, at seventy-five, express the same hope to meet in another sphere the one 
heart that she had ever found herself ai)le eiilirely to sympaliiise with, but which 
had been divided from her on earth by such pitiless obstacles.] 

Tluiysday Night. 

I CANNOT be easy, my Clarinda, while any sentiment respecting me 
in your bosom gives me pain. If there is no man on eartli to whom your 
heart and affections are justly due, it may savour of imprudence, but never 
of criminality, to bestow that heart and those affections where you please. 
The (k)d of love meant and made those delicious attachments to be 
bestowed on .somebody; and even all the imjirudencc lies in bestowing 
them on an unworthy object. If this reasoning is conclusive, as it 
certainly is, I must be allowed to "talk of love." 

It is, perhaps, rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of his letter: it 
is apt to lay one under a little restraint in their future letters, and restrainc 



386 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

I is the death of a friendly epistle ; but there is one passage in 3-our last 

i charming letter, Thomson or Shenstone never exceeded it, nor often 

% cariie up to it. I shall certainly steal it, and set it in some future poetic 

;' production, and get immortal fame by it. ''Tis when you bid the scenes 

^ of nature remind me of Clarinda. Can I forget you, Clarinda ? I woi'.ld 

detest myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, inf^imous blockhead. I 

. have loved women of ordinary merit, whom I could have loved for ever. 

I You are the iirst, the only unexceptionable individual of the beauteous sex 

that 1 ever met with ; and never woman more entirely possessed my soul. 

I know myself, and how far 1 can depend on passion's swell. It has been 

my peculiar study. 

I thank you for going to Miers. Urge him, for necessity calls, to have 
it clone by the middle of next week : Wednesday the latest day. 1 want 
it for a breast-pin, to wear next my heart. I propose to keep sacred set 
times, to wander in the woods and wilds for meditation on \ou. Then, 
and only then, your lovely image shall be produced' to the day, with a 
reverence akin to devotion. 

To-morrow night shall not be the last. Good-night ! I am perfectly 
stupid, as I supped late yesternight. 

Sylvander. 



No. cm. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Saturday Mofning. 

There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of 
love and friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of what our 
favourite Thomson calls "philosophic melancholy." The sportive insects, 
who bask in the sunshine of prosperity, or the worms, that luxuriant crawl 
amid their ample wealth of earth; they need no Clarinda — they would 
despise Sylvander, if they dared. The family of Misfortune, a numerous 
group of brothers and sisters ! they need a resting-place to their souls. 
Unnoticed, often condemned by the world — in some degree, perhaps, 
condemned by themselves — they feel the full enjoyment of ardent love, 
delicate, tender endearments, mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. 

In this light I liave often admired religion. In proportion as we are 
wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a comp'assionate 
Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear. 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 
'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night." 

I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says, 
" the dark postern of time long elapsed ; " and you will easily guess 'twas 
a rueful prospect. WHiat a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! 
My life reminded me of a ruined temple: what strength, what proportion 
Ml some parts! — what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in otiiers ! I 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 387 



kneded down before the Father of Mercies, and said, " Father, I have 
sinned against Heaven, and in Thy sight, and am no more worthy to be 
called Thy son ! " I rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the super- 
stition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. " The future," said 
I to myself, " is still before me : there let me 

' On reason build resolve — 
That column of true majesty in man ! ' 

I have difficulties many to encounter," said I; "but they are not abso- 
lutely insuperable : and where is firmness of mind shown, but in exertion.'' 
Mere declamation is l^ombast rant. Besides, wherever I am, or in what- 
ever situation 1 may be, 

-' 'Tis nought to me, 



Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full; 
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.'" 

Saturday Night, Half after Ten. 

What luxury of bliss I was enjoying at this time yesternight! My ever 
dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul : but you have refined, 
you have exalted it; you have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and a 
stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of your sex ! if ever I am the 
veriest wretch on earth to forget you — if ever your lovely image is effaced 
from my soul, 

" May I be lost, no eye to weep my end, 
And find no earth that's base enough to bury me! " 

What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every-day children 
of the world! 'Tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of the fields 
and forests ; but, where sentiment and fancy unite their sweets, where 
tast-e and delicacy refine, where wit adds the flavour, and good sense gives 
strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is the hour of tender 
endearment ! 



No. CIV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

I AM a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. 
Clarinda, if you ever forget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will be 
miserable. 

Oh, what a fool I am in love ! what an extravagant prodigal of affection ! 
Why are your sex called the tender sex, when I "never have met with one 
who can repay me in passion? They are either not so rich in love as I 
am, or they are niggards where I am lavish. 

O Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways! Thou see'st me 
here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom : do Thou 
direct to Thyself that ardent love, for which I have so often sought a retun? 
in vain from my fellow-creatures ! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift ip 



388 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



store for me as an equal return of aflfcclion from her who. Thou knowest, 
is clearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our band of love and 
friendship ; watch over us, in all our outgoings and incomings for good ; 
and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the 
thread of man's immortal life ! 

I am just going to take your blackbird, the sweetest, I am sure, that 
ever sung, and prune its wings a little. 

Sylvander. 



No. CV. 
TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Afoming. 

I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you half a 
line by way of a sin offering ; but, believe me, Hwas the sin of ignorance. 
Could you think that I intended to hurt yovi by anything 1 said yester- 
night? Nature has l)een too kind to you for your happiness, yom- delicacy, 
your sensibility. Oh why should such glorious qualifications be the 
fruitful source of wo! You have "murdered sleep" to me last night. I 
went to bed imi)ressed with an idea that you were unhappy ; and every 
start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such scenes of romantic 
misery, that I would almost be persuaded you are not well this morning. 

" If T unwitting have offended, 

Impute it not." 

" lUit wliile we live 

But one sliort hour, peili.->ps, between us two 
Let there be peace." 

If Mary has not gone by the time this reaches you. give her my best 
compliments. She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the noblest 
love. 

1 send you a poem to read till I call on you this night, which will be 
about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell some fairy ch,arm, 
that would protect from injury, or restore to rest, that bosom chord, 
" trembling alive all o'er," on which hangs your peace of mind. I thought, 
vainly I fear thought, that the devotion of love — love strong as even you 
can feel, love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the purity of virtue, 
and all the pride of honour — I thouglit such a love might make you happy. 
Shall I be mistaken? I can no more, for hurry. 



No. CVI. 
TO CLARINDA. 

Friday Morinng, 7 o'clock. 

Your fears for Mary are truly laughable. I sup|)ose, my love, you and 
I showed her a scene which, perhaps, made her wisli that she had a swain, 
and one who could love like me ; and 'tis a thousand pities that so good 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 389 

a heart as hers slunilcl want an aim, an object. I am niiscral)]y stupid 
this moiniiig. Vesierilay I (lintnl with a baronet, and sat pretty late over 
the bottle. yVnii "who hath wo — who hath sorrow? tliey that tarry long 
at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine." Forgive me, likewise, a 
quotation from my favourite author. Solomon's knowledge of the world 
is very great. He may be looked on as the Spectator or /Idiicntiirer 
of his day: and it is, indeed, surprising what a sameness has ever been in 
human nature. The broken, but strongly characterising hints, that the 
royal author gives us of the manners of the cour*i of Jerusalem and 
country of Israel are, in their great outlines, the same pictures that 
London and England, Versailles and France, exhibit some three thousand 
years later. The loves in the " Song of Songs "are all in the spirit of 
Lady ^L W. Montagu, or Madame Ninon de Tl'^nclos; though, for my 
part, I dislike both the ancient and modern voluptuaries; and will dare 
to affirm, that such an attachment as mine to Clarinda, and such evenings 
as she and I have spent, are what these greatly respectable and deeply 
experienced judges of life and love never dreamed of. 

I shall be with you this evening between eight and nine, and shall keep 
as sober hours as you could wish. 

I am ever, my dear Madam, yours, 

SVLVANDER. 



No. CVII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[The " Purit.inic scrawl " is an allusion to some reproaches wliich had been 
addressed to Mrs. M'Lehosc, on account of lier intimacy with Burns.] 

My ever nEAREST Clarinda, 

I make a numerous dinner-party wait me while I read yours and 
write this. Do not require that I sliould cease to love you, to adore you 
in my soul ; 'tis to me impossible: your peace and happiness are tome 
dearer than my soul. Name the terms on which you wish to see me, to 
corresponil with me, and you have them. I must love, pine, mourn, and 
adore in secret: this you must not deny ine. You will ever be to me 

" Dear as the light th.it visits those sad eyes, 
Dear as the luddy drops that warm my hcirt." 

I have not patience to read the Puritanic scrawl. Damned sophistry! 
Ye heavens, thou (}od of nature, thou Redeemer of mankind ! ye look 
down with approving eyes on a passion inspired by the jjurest flame, and 
guarded by truth, delicacy, and honour; but the half-inch soul of an 
unfeeling, cold-blooded, i^itiful Presbyterian bigot cannot forgive anything 
above his dungeon-bosom and foggy head. 

Farewell! I'll be with you to-morrow evening; and be at rest in 
your mind. I will be yours in the way you think most to your happiness. 
I dare not i)rocecd. I love, and will love you ; and will, with joyous 



390 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

coiifiilenc(\ approach the throne of tlic Ahnij^hty Judge of men with 
your clear idea; and will despise the scum of sentiment anil ihr niisi 
of sophistry. 

Sylvanuku. 



No. CVIII. 
TO CI.ARINDA. 

MAI:)AM, n'.;hi,-sil,ty, Mi<i,ii):ht. 

After a wretched day, I am preparing" for a sleepless nij^iit. I am 
going to address myself to the Almij^lUy Witness of my actions — some 
time, perhaps very soon, my Almighty Judge. I am not going to be the 
advocate of Passion : be Thou my inspirer and testimony, O (iod. as I 
plead the cause of truth ! 

1 have reatl over your friend's haughty, dictatorial letter: you are only 
answerable to )our Cod in such a matter. Who gave any fellow-creature 
of yours (a fellow-creature incapable of being your judge, because not 
your peer) a right to catechise, scold, undervalue, abuse, and insult, 
wantonly and inhumanly to insult, you thus? I don't wish, not even 
wish, to deceive you, Madam. The Searcher of hearts is my witness how 
dear you are to me ; but though it were possible you could be still dearer 
to me, I would not even kiss your hand at the expense of your conscience- 
Away with declamation ! let us appeal to the bar of common sense. It 
is not mouthing everything sacred; it is not vague ranting assertions; 
it is not assuming, haughtily and insultingly assuming, the dictatorial 
language of a Roman jionlirf, that must dissolve a union lil<e ours. Tell 
me. Madam, are you under the least shadow of an obligation to bestow 
your love, tenderness, caresses, atfections, heart and soul, on Mr. 
M'Lehose — the man who has repeatedly, habitually, and barbarously 
broken through every tie of duty, nature, or gratitude to you.-' The laws 
of your country, indeed, ft)r the most useful reasons of policy and sound 
government, have made vour person inviolate; but are your heart and 
aft'ections bound to one who gives not the least return of either to you? 
You cannot do it; it is not in the nature of things that you are bound to 
do it; the common feelings of humanity forliicl it. Have you, then, 
a heart and atfections which are no man's right? N'nu have. It would b" 
highly, ridiculously absurd to suppose the contr.iry. Till me, then., in the 
name of common sense, can it be wrong, is such a .supposili;ni compatible 
with the plainest ideas of right and wrong, that it is improijcr to bestow 
the heart and the.se affections on another — while that bestowing is not in 
the smallest degree hurtful to your duty to Cod, to your children, to your- 
self, or to society at large? 

This is the great test; the consec|nences : let us .see tiuin. In a 
widowed, forlorn, lont'ly situation, with a bosom glowing with love and 
tenderness, yet so clelieately situateil tiiat you cannot intlulge these nobler 
feelings except you meet with a luan who has a soul capable 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 39 1 

No. CIX. 

TO CLAKINDA. 

'* I AM (listirsscd for tlice, my brother Jonathan." I have suffered, 
Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the sad perusal. I 
dreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have wronj^ed you, (Jod forgive me. 
liut, Clarinda, l>e comforted. Let us raise tlie tone of our feelings a little 
higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who leaves us — who spurns us 
without just cause, though once our bosom friend — up with a little lioncst 
pride: let lu'ni go! How shall I comfort you, wlio am tlie cause of the 
injury? Can 1 wish tliat 1 had never seen you — that we had never met? 
No, I never will. Hut, have 1 thrown you friendless.^ — there is almost 
distraction in the thought. Father of mercirs ! against Tliee often have 
1 sinned : through Tiiy grace 1 will endeavour to do so no more. .She 
who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than myself — pour Thou the balm of 
peace into her past wounds, and hedge her about with Thy peculiar care, 
all her future d.iys and nights. .Strengthen her tender, noble mind firmly 
to suffer and magnanimously to bear. Make me worthy of that friendship, 
that love she honours me with. May my attachment to her be pure as 
devotion, and lasting as immortal life! () Almighty (loodne.ss, hear me! 
Be to her at all times, particularly in tlie hour of distress or trial, a friend 
and comforter, a guide and guard. 

" How .Trc thy servants Ijlust, () Lord, 
How sure is llicir dc-fcmx;! 
]'',lL-ni;il wisiJoiii is their u'li'le, 
'I liiii hi;lij ( )iniii]K)leiii;e." 

Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done y(ju. To-night I shall be 
with. you, as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you. 

Sylvandek. 



No. ex. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Two n'liock. 

I JUST now received your first letter of yesterday, by the carele.ss 
negligence of the ])enny-post. Clarinda, matters are grown very .serious 
with us; then seriously hear me, and hear me, Heaven — I met you, my 

dear , by far the first of womankind, at least to me; I esteemed, 

I loved you at first sight; the huiger I am acquainted with you, the more 
innate amiableness and worth 1 discover in you. You have suffered a 
loss, I confess, for my sake : but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friend- 
ship — if every endeavour to l)e worthy of your friendship — if a love, 
strong as the tics of n;iture, and holy as the duties of religion — if all 
the.se can make anything like a compensation for the evil I have occa- 
sioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in the least add to 



392 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



your enjoyments — so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in liis hour of 
need, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda ! 

I esteem \ ou, I love you as a tViend : I admire you, I love vou as a 
woman beyond any one in all the circle of creation ; 1 know I shall con- 
tinue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you — nay, to pray for myself 
for }our sake. 

Expect me at eight — and believe me to be ever, my dearest Madam, 

Yours most entirely, 

Sylvander. 

No. CXI. 

TO CLARINDA. 

When matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a desperate 
face — 

" On reason Iniild resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man" — 

or, as the same author tinely says in another place, 

" Let thy soul sprinc; up 
And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee." 

I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this. Look 
forward : in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other, out of the 
possibility of seeing you ; till then, I shall write you often, but visit you 
seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness, are dearer to me than 
any gratification whatever. 13e comforted, my love ! the present moment 
is the worst ; tlie lenient hand of time is daily and hourly either lightening 
the burden, or making us insensible to the weight. None of these friends 
— I mean Mr. and the other gentleman — can hurt your worldly sup- 
port; and of their fricndsliip, in a little time you will learn to be easy, and 
by and by to be hajjpy without it. A decent means of livelihood in the 
world, an appro\ing Cuid, a peaceful conscience, and one firm trusty 
friend — can anybody that has these be said to be unhappy? These are 
yours. 

To-morrow evening I shall l)e with you about eight, probal)ly for the 
last time till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of 
tliese two unlucky friends question you resi^ecting me, whether I am the 
man, I do not think they are entitled to any information. As to their 
jealousy and spying, I despise them. Adieu, my dearest Madam ! 

SVLVANDER. 

No. CXII. 

TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

My DEAR Friend, [Edinburgh, 1788.] 

If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I 

promise myself the pleasure of that corrcsjiondence being renewed which 

has been so long broken. At px'csent 1 have time for nothing. Dissipa- 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 393 

tion and business engross every moment. I am engaged in assisting 
an honest Scotch enthusiast,' a friend of mine, who is an engraver, 
and has tai<cn it into his head to publisli a collection of all our songs 
set to music, of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. 
This, you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly to my taste. 1 have 
collected, i)egged, borrowed, and sttjlen, all the songs I could meet with. 
" Pompey's (ihost," words and music, I beg from you immediately, to go 
into his second number — the first is already published. I shall shew you 
the first number when I see you in (Glasgow, which will be in a fortnight 
or less. Do be so kind as to send me the song in a day or two — you 
cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. James's Scjuare, New 
Town, Edinburgh. — R. B. 



No. CXIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edindurgii, February 12, 1788. 

Some things in your late letters hurt me ; not that yoii say them, but 
that/t'« tiiistake me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been 
all my life my chief dependence, l)ut my dcjarest enjoyment. I have 
indeed been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! I have ever 
been " more fool than knave." A mathematician without religion is a 
probable character; an irreligious poet is a monster. — R. Ji. 



No. CXIV. 
TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Reverend and dear Sir, Edinburgh, hM i'v/5rMa>-j', 1788. 

I have been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting 
vastly better, and have been very much hurried besides, or else I would 
have wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you .sent 
me appearing in the magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my 
intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the publication 
of the magazine. However, as it does great honour to us both, you will 
forgive it. 

The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is pub- 
lished to-diy. I send you a copy, which I beg you will accept as a mark 
of veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your character, and 
of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance. Your songs appear 
in the third volume, with your name in the index; as I assure you, 
Sir, I have heard your " Tullochgorum," particularly among our west- 
country folks, given to many different names, and most commonly to the 
immortal author of "The Minstrel," who indeed never wrote anything 

' Mr. Johnson, publisher of the Scots Musical Museum. 



394 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

superior to " Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried." Your brother lias prom- 
ised me your verses to the Marcjuis of Huntly's reel, which certainly deserve 
a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruikshank, of the High 
School here, and said to be one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to 
j make you his grateful acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got 
J in a Latin publication ofyouis, that I borrowed for him from your accjuaint- 
\ ance, and much-respected friend in this place, the Reverend Dr. Webster. 
♦ Mr. Cruikshank maintains that you write the best Latin since Buchanan. 
1 1 leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your song 
:;i you mentioned in your last, to the tune of " Dumbarton Drums," and the 
t other, which \ou say was done by a brother in trade of mine, a plough- 
5 man, I shall thank you for a copy of each. 
"i I am ever, reverend Sir, 

With the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, yours, 

R. B. 



No. CXV. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

;< My dear Friend, Edinhurgh, Ffbmary 15, 1788. 

! I received yours with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at 

fj Glasgow on Monday evening ; and beg, if possible, you will meet me 

; en Tuesday. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be found at 

\ Davies's Black Bull Inn. I am hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else 

I I. should go to Greenock; but if you cannot possibly come, write me, if 

I possible, to Glasgow, on Monday ; or direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauch- 

% line ; and name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight from this 

; date, where I may meet you. I only stay a fortnight in A}rshire, and 

•i return to Edinburgh. 

; I am ever, my dearest Friend, yours, 

R. B. 



No. CXVL 
TO MLSS CHALMERS. 

EuiNiiURCH, Sundijy [Fcbrudry 17]. 

To-morrow, my dear Madam, I leave Edinburgh. I have altered all 
my plans of future life. A farm that I could live in, 1 could not find ; and, 
indeed, after the necessary support my brother and the rest of the family 
required, 1 could not venture on farming in that style suitable to my 
feelings. You will condemn me for the next step I have taken : I have 
entered into the Excise. 1 stay in the west about three weeks, and then 
return to Edinburgh for six weeks' instructions ; afterwards, for I get 
employ instantly, I go on il plait a Dieii — et inon roi. 1 have chosen this, 
my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question is not at what 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 39$ 

door of fortune's paiace shall we enter in, but what doors does she open 
to us? I was not likely to get anything to do. I wanted nn bill, which 
is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. 1 got this without any hanging on, 
or mortifying solicitation: it is immediate bread; and though poor in 
comparison of tiie last eighteen montiis of my existence, 'tis luxury in 
comparison of all my preceding life : besides, the commissioners are some 
of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends. — R. E. 



No. CXVII. 
TO MRS. ROSE, 

OF KILRAVOCK. 

[This is an acknowledgment of two Highland airs which Mrs. Rose had sent 
him, with a very kind letter.] 

Madam, Edinbukgh, February 17, 1788. 

You are much indebted to some indispensable business I have 
had on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for 
your obliging favour as would have tired your patience. It but poorly 
expresses my feelings to say, that I am sensible of your kindness. It may 
be said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, mine is, much more 
justly than Addison applies it — 

" Some souls by instinct to each other turn." 

There was something in my reception at Kilravock so dilTerent from the 
cold, pbsequious, dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almost got into 
my head that friendship had occupied her ground without the interme- 
diate march of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or rather trans- 
fuse into language, the glow of my heart when I read your letter. My 
ready fancy, with colours more mellow than life itself, painted the beauti- 
ful wild scenery of Kilravock ; the venerable grandeur of the castle ; the 
spreading woods; the winding river, gladly leaving his unsightly, heathy 
source, and lingering witii apparent delight as he passes the fairy walk at 
bottom of the garden ; your late distressful anxieties ; your present enjoy- 
ments ; your dear little angel, the pride of your hopes; my aged friend, 
venerable in worth and years, whose loyalty and other virtues will strongly 
entitle her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, and His peculiar 
favour in a hapi)ier state of existence. You cannot imagine. Madam, how 
much such feelings delight me: they are my dearest proofs of my own 
immortality. Should I never revisit the north, as ])robably I never will, 
nor again see your hospitable mansion, were I some twenty years' hence 
to see your little fellow's name making a proper figure in a newspaper 
paragraph, my heart would bound with pleasure. 

I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set to their 
proper tunes ; every air worth preserving is to be included : among others 



T 



396 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

I have given " Morag," and some few Highland airs whicii pleased me most, 
a dress which will be more generally known, though far, far inferior in 
i-eal merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, 1 i)eg leave to present 
you with a copy of the work, as tar as it is printed : the Man of Feeling, 
that Hrst of men, has promised to transmit it by the first opportunity. 

I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend and 
to your little Highland chieftain.' When you see the "two fair spirits of 
the hill" at Kildrummie,' tell them that I have done myself the honour of 
setting m)'self down as one of their admirers for at least twenty years to 
come — consequent!} they must look upon me as an acquaintance for the 
same period; but, as the Apostle Paul says, "this 1 ask of grace, not of 
debt." 

I have the honour to be. Madam, &c., 

R. B. 



No. CXVIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[On the iSth of Feliruary, Burns left Edinburgh for Mossgiel, visiting Glasgow 
and Kilmarnock on his way. In a last fond interview, Sylvander and Clarinda 
had parlcd, but the correspoiuleiice was coiuinuetl. Sylvander had disclosed to 
C'lariiula his uidiappy liasoit with Jean Armour and die prospect of a second ]dcdge 
of iUicit K)ve. Clarinda in her replies speaks with kinchiess of Jean, but cviilendy 
looks R)rwaid on lier own side to tlie prospect of a union with Burns, sliould her 
husl)an(rs death leave her free to marry again. "Yuu know," she says, " I count 
all things (Heaven excepted) but loss, that I may win and keep you." How far 
lUirns had any serious Ihou^lits of marriaj;;e with Mrs. M'Lehose, should circum- 
stances permit il, it is (lilllruh to >,ay; lull at any rate he reckoned himself released 
from all obligations towards Jean Armour, except those of common humanity.] 

Glasgow, hlondny Evening, Nine o'clock. 

The attraction of love, I find, is in an inverse proportion to the attrac- 
tion of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir I.saac, the nearer 
objects were to one another, the stronger was the attractive force. In 
my system, every milestone that marked my jjrogress from Clarinda, 
awakened a keener inng of attachment to her. llow do you feel, my 
love? Is your heart ill at ease? I fear it. Cod forbid that these per.secu-- 
tors should harass that peace, which is more precious to me than, my own. 
Be assured I shall ever think on you, muse on you, and in my moments 
of devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in my thoughts, " be 
that hour darkness ; let the shadows of death cover it ; let it not be num- 
bered ill the hours of the day ! " 

" When 1 forget the d.nilinp; theme. 
Be my tongue mnte! my fancy paint no more! 
And, dead to joy, forget niy heart to beat! " 

■ The references in these two sentences are to Mrs. Rcsc's mother and her son Hugh, and to 
young ladies of the neighbourhood. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 397 



I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain ' — guess my pleasure : 
to meet you could alone have given me more. My brother William, too, 
the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are wc 
three spending the evening. 

I arrived here too late to write by post; but I'll wrap half-a-dozen sheets 
of blank paper together, and send it by the Fly, under the name of a parcel. 
You will hear from me next post-town. 1 would write you a longer letter, 
but for the present circumstances of my friend. 

Adieu, my Clarinda ! 1 am just going to propose your health by way of 
grace drink. 

Sylvander. 

No. CXIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Kilmarnock, Friday [Feb. 22]. 

I WROTE you, my dear Madam, the moment I alighted in Glasgow. 
Since then I have not had opportunity; for in Paisley, where 1 arrived 
next d.iy, my worthy, wise friencl Mr. Pattison did not allow me a moment's 
respite. I was there ten hours ; during which time I was introduced to 
nine men worth six thousands; five men worth ten thousands; his bro- 
ther, richly worth twenty tliousands; and a young weaver, who will have 
thirty thousands good when his fattier, who has no more children than the 
.said weaver, and a Whig kirk, dies. Mr. P. was bred a zealous Anti- 
burglicr; but during ins widowerhood he lias found their strictness incom- 
patible with certain compromises he is often obliged to make with those 
powers of darkness — the devil, the world, and the flesh. . . . His only 
daughter, who, " if the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale," 
will jiave seven thousand pounds when her old father steps into the 
dark'factory-office of eternity with his well-thrummed web of life, has 
put him again and again in a commendable fit of indignation by requesting 
a harpsichord. "O these boarding-schools!" exclaims my prudent friend: 
" she was a good spinner and sewer till 1 was advised by her foes and 
mine to give her a yjar of Edinburgh ! " 

After two bottles more, my mucii-respected friend opened up to me a 
project — a legitimate child of Wisdom and Good Sense : 'twas no less than 
a long-thougiit-on and deeplv-malured design, to marry a girl fully as 
elegant in her form as the famous jiriestess whom Saul consulted in his 
last hours, and who had been second maid of honour to his deceased 
wife. This, you may be sure, I highly applauded ; so I ho])e for a pair of 
gloves l)y and Iw. I spent the two bypast days at Dunlop House, with 
that wortiiy famdy to whom I was deeply indebted early in my poetic 
career, and in about two hours I siiall j^resent your " twa wee sarkies" to 
the little fellow. My dearest Clarinda, you are ever present with me; and 
these hours, that drawl by among the fools and rascals of this world, are 
only sup|)ort,ibIe in the idea, that they are the forerunners of that happy 
hour that ushers me to "the mistress of my soul." Next week I shall visit 

'Mr. Richard Brown. 



398 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Dumfries, and next again return to Edinburgh. Mv letters, in tlie.se 
hurrying dissip.Ucd hours, will be heavy ira.sh ; uut you know the writer. 
God bless ) ou ! 

Sylvander. 



No, CXX. 

TO GAVIN HAMli;rON, F.SQ. 

[Tliis letter refers to .a proposal that Roliert should hcconie giiar.intec for his 
brother for a eoiisiderahle amount. 'I'lial his reluelanee to assume the ohlijration 
dill not arise from seltish motives is shewn l)y liis ailvanee of iSo/. to C'.ilherl soon 
afterwards, when he liad realized the proeeeds of his poems.] 

Mossi.n-i , Fritiay HfufHin^. 

Till", l.uigu.igc of refus.d is ti) mo the nuist dirrKull l.iiiguago on earth, 
and you are tiie ni.ui in the world, excepting one of Right llononr.ible 
designation, to wlumi it gives me the greatest pain to hoKl sneh langnagc. 
My brother has ahe.uly got money, and shall w.int nothing in my power 
to enable him to I'uKil his engagement with you ; but to be secnritv on .so 
large a scale, even for a brother, is what I dare not do, except I were in 
sucli circumstances of life as that the worst that might happen could not 
greatly injure me. 

I never wrote a letter which gave nic so much pain in mv life, as 1 know 
the unhappy consequences : I shall incur the displeasure of a gentleman 
for whom 1 have the highest respect, and to whom I am deeply oljliged. 

I am ever. Sir, 
^'our obliged and very humble Servant, 

ROBEKT lU'KNS. 



No. CXXI. 



My nEAi^ Sir, 

I arrived here, at 
my way through I'aislev 
foes of mine — the devil. 



TO MR, RICHARD RROWN. 

MossoiKi., n.'A Ffhriinry, 1788. 



my brother's, only yesterday, after fightinff 
and Kilmarnock ag.unst tho.so old powerful _ 



the world, and the 



powei 
llesh ; so terriiile in the" 



fields of dissipation. 1 have met with few incidents in my li-fe which 
gave me so nuich pleasure as meeting you in (d.i.sgow. 'riiere is a time 
of life beyond which we cannot form a tie w«)rth tlie name of friendship. 
"Oh youth! enchanting stage, profu.sely blest." Lite is a fairy .scene: 
almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure is only a 
charming delusicMi ; and in comes repining age. in all the gravity oi hoary 
wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the bewitching phantom. When I 
think ot lite, 1 resolve to keep a strict look-out in the cour.se of economy, 
for the sake ot worldly convenience and independence i>f mind ; to cultivate 
intimacy with a lew of the companions of youtli. that they may be the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 399 

friends of age; never to refuse my licjuorish humour a handful of the 
sweetmeats of life, when they coine not too dear; and, for futurity — 

'I'hc present inoinent is our ;ilii, 
The ncist wc never .saw ! 

How like you my philosophy? (live my best cx)mpliments to Mrs. B., 
and believe me to be, 

My dear Sir, yours most truly, 

R. H. 



No. CXXII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Cumnock \^Hiitloy\, -nl March, 1788. 

I IIOPK, and am certain, tlint my generous Clarinda will not think my 
silence, for now a long week, has been in any degree owing to my forgct- 
fulne.ss. I have been tossed about through the country ever since I wrote 
you; and am here, returning from Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the post- 
office of the place, witli just so long time as my horse eats liis corn, to 
write you. I have been hurried with business and dissipation almost 
equal to the insidious decree of the Persian monarch's mandate, when he 
forbade asking petition of (loci or man for forty days. Had the venera];)le 
prophet been as throng [busy] as 1, he had not broken the decree, at least 
not thrice a-day. 

I am tiiinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy, intelligent 
farmer, my father's friend and my own, has been with me on the spot: he 
thinks the bargain practicable. I am myselt', on a more serious review of 
the lands, mucli better pleased with them. 1 wont mention this in writing 
to aiiybody but you and [AinslieJ. Don't accuse me of being fickle: I 
have the two plans of lile !)efore me, and I wish to adojit the one most 
likely to procure me inilependence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. 
I long to see you : your image is omnii^resent to me ; nay, I am convinced 
I would soon idolatrize it most seriously — so much do absence and 
memory improve tiie medium through which one sees the much-loved 
o!;j?ct. To-night, at the sacred iioiw of eight, 1 exjiect to meet you — at 
the Throne of Cirace. 1 hoi)e, as I go home to-night, to fmd a letter from 
you at the posl-oflice in Mauchiine. 1 iiave just once seen tiiat dear hand 
since 1 left iMJinburgh — a letter indeed which nnich allected me. Tell 
me, first of wouKinkind! will my warmest attachment, my sincerest 
friendship, my correspondence — will they be any compen.sation for the 
sacrilici's you make for my sake? If they will, they are yours. If I 
settle on the farm I jjropo.se, I am just a day and a half's ride from Edin- 
burgh. We will meet — don't you say " perhaps too often! " 

Farewell, my fair, my charming poete.ss ! May all good things ever at- 
tend you ! 

1 am ever, my dearest Mad;im, yours, 

SVI.VANUKlt. 



400 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

No. CXXIII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

My dear Sir, lA\vc\\\.\\i'B.,-\,d March, \^%%. 

Apologies for not writing arc frequently like apologies for not 
singing — tlic apology better than the song. I have fought my way 
severely through the savage hospitality of this country, (the object of all 
hosts being) to send every guest drunk to bed if they can. . . . 

I should return my thanks for your hospitality (I leave a blank for 

the epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a poor wayfaring bard, 
who was sj)ent and almost overpowered fighting with prosaic wickeclnesses 
in high places ; but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter whenever 
you come to the passage, so 1 pass over it in silence. I am just returned 
from visiting Mr. RlilJerls farm. The friend whom 1 told you 1 would take 
with nic was highly pleased with the farm ; and as he is, witliout ex- 
ception, the most intelligent farmer in the country, lie has staggered me a 
good deal. I have the two plans of life before me : I shall balance them 
to the best of my judgment, and fi.\ on the most eligible. I have written 
Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when I come to town, which shall be 
the beginning or middle of next week: I would be in sooner, but my 
unlucky knee is rather worse, and 1 fear for some time will scarcely stand 
the fatigue of my Excise instructi.)ns. I only mention these ideas to you; 
and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I intend writing to to-morrow, I will 
not write at all to lulinburgh till I return to it. I would send my com- 
pliments to Mr. Nicol, but he would be hurt if he knew I wrote to any- 
body, and not to him ; so I shall only beg my best, kindest, kindest 
compliments to my worthy hostess and the sweet little Rosebud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an e.xcisc-oificer 
or as a farmer, I propose myself great pleasure fiom a regular correspon- 
dence with the only man almost 1 ever saw who joined the most attentive 
prudence with tlie warmest generosity. 

I am nuich interested for that best of men. Mr. Wood. I hope lie is in 
better health and spirits than when I saw him last. 

I am ever, m^ dearest Friend, 

Your obliged, humble Servant, 

R. B. 

No. CXXIV. 

TO MR. ROJ5LRT AIN.SLIE. 

My dear Friend, Mauchi.ine, s^/A/^rr/?, 1783. 

I am just returned from Mr. Miller's farm. My old friend whom 

I took with me was highly pleased with the bargain, and advised me to 

accept of it. lie is the niost intelligent, sensible farmer in the county, and 

his advice has staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans before 

me : I shall endeavour to balance them to the best of my judgment, and 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 401 

fix on the most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Miller in the same 
favourable disposition as when I saw him last, I shall in all probability 
turn farmer. 

I have been through sore tribulation, and under much buflfeting of the 
Wicked One, since 1 came to this country. Jean I found banished like a 
martyr — forlorn, destitute, and friendless. I have reconciled her to her 
mother. . . . 

I shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next week. My farming ideas 
I shall keep quiet till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and 
she tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. Tell her that I wrote 
to her from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yesterday 
from Cumnock, as I returned from Dumfries. Indeed, she is the only 
person in Edinburgh I have written to till this day. How are your soul 
and body putting up.? — a little like man and wife, 1 suppose. 

Your faithful Friend, 

R. B. 



No. CXXV. 

[TO ?] 

[The next letter is supposed by Allan Cunningham to be addressed to Mr. 
Robert Ainslie, under date Mauchline, July, 1787, but Mr. R. Chambers suspects 
there is an error here both as to date and superscription.] 

My dear Sir, Mavchuj^e, iehueeu ^d and S//t 3farc/t, ijSS. 

My life, since I saw you last, has been one continued hurry; that 
savage hospitality which knocks a man down with strong liquors is the 
devil. I have a sore warfare in this world — the devil, the world, and the 
flesh are three formidable foes. The first I generally try to fly from ; the 
second, alas ! generally flies from me ; but the third is my plague, worse 
than the ten plagues of Egypt. 

I have been looking over several farms in this country ; one, in par- 
ticular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that if my offer to the proprietor 
is accepted, I shall commence farmer at Whitsunday. If farming do not 
appear eligible, I shall have recourse to my other shift ;i but this to a 
friend. 

I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning : how long I stay there is 
uncertain, but you will know so soon as I can inform you myself. How- 
ever, I determined poesy must be laid aside for some time ; my mind 
has been vitiated with idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort to 
habituate it to the routine of business. 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 
• R. B. 

• The Excise. 



4 



402 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CXXVI. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

{March (>th, 1733.] 

I OWN myself guilty, Clarinda: I .sliould have written you last week. 
But when you recollect, my dearest Madam, that yours of this nights post 
is only the third I have from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth I have 
seat to you, you will not reproach me, with a good grace, for unkindncss. 
1 have always some kind of idea not to sit down to write a letter, except I 
have time, and possession of my faculties, so as to do some justice to my 
letter ; which at present is rarely my situation. For instance, yesterday 
1 dined at a friend's ;it some distance : the .savage hospitality of this 
country spent me the most part of the night over the nauseous potion in 
the bowl. This day — sick — headache — low spirits — miserable — fast- 
ing, except for a draught of water or small beer. Now eight o'clock at 
night; only able to crawl ten minutes' walk into Mauchline, to wait the" 
post, in the pk'asural)]e hope of hearing from the mistress of my soul. 

But truce witli all this ! When 1 sit down to write to you, all is happi- 
ness and peace. A hundred times a day do I ligure you before your 
taper, your book or work laid aside as I get witliin the room. How happy 
have 1 been! and how little of that scantling portion of time, called the 
life of man, is sacred to happiness, much less transport. 

I could moralize to-night like a death's-head. 

" O what is life, tkat thoughtless wish of all! 
A drop of honey in a draught of gall." 

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheels of 
life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. " None 
saith, Where is (lod, my Maker, that giveth songs in the niglit: who 
teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and more under- 
standing than the fowls of the air? " 

Give me, my Maker, to remember Thee ! Give me to act up to the 
dignity of my nature! Give me to feel "another's wo;" and couliinie 
with me that dear loved friend that feels with mine ! 

Tile dignifying and dignified consciousness of an honest man, and tlic 
well-grouniled trust in approving Heaven, are two most substantial foini- 
dations of happiness. . . . 

I could not have written a page to any mortal except yourself. TU' 
write you by Sunday's post. Adieu ! Good-night ! 

Sylvandek. 

No. CXXVII. 
SYLV/VNDER TO CLARINDA. 

MOSSGIEL, -jt/i Murc/i, 17SS. 

Clarinda, I have been so stung with your reproach for unkindness — 
a sin so unlike me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the ^vholo Deca- 
logue, tiflh, sixth, srvcnth, and ninth articlrs excepted — that I believe 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 403 

I shall not rest in my grave about it, if I die before I see you. You have 
often allowed me the head to judge and the heart to feel the influence 
of female excellence: was it not blaspliciny then, against your own charms 
and against my feelings, to suppose that a short fortnigiit could abate my 
passion? 

You, my love, may have your cares and anxieti :s to disturb you ; but 
they are the usual occurrences of life. Your future views are fixed, and 
your mind in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, 
make a litt'e allowance for a man, after long absence, paying a short 
visit to a country full of friends, relations, and early intimates? Cannot 
you guess, my Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious fore- 
bodings, hopes, and fears, must crowd the breast of the man of keen 
sensibility, when no less is on the tapis than his aim, his employment, his 
very existence through future life? 

To be overtopped in anything else, I can bear; but in the tests of 
generous love, I defy all mankind ! not even to the tender, the fond, the 
loving Clarinda; she whose strength of attachment, whose melting soul, 
may vie with Eloise and Sappho ; not even she can overpay the affection 
she owes me ! 

Now that, not my apology, but my defence is mada, I feel my soul 
respire more easily. I know you will go along with me in my justification : 
would to Heaven you could in my adoption, too ! I mean an adojjtion 
beneath the stars — an adoption where I might revel in the immediate 
beams jf 

"She the bright sun of all her sex." 

I would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at Miss Nimmo's 
coldness. 'Tis placing yourself below her, an honour she by no means 
deserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness — 
we ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own character ; 
and when, on full examination, we know where we stand, and how 
much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as property ; and those 
who seem to doubt or deny us what is justly ours, let us either pity their 
prejudices or des|)ise their judgment. 1 know, my dear, you will say this 
is self-conceit ; but I call it self-knowledge: the one is the overweening 
opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be what he wishes himself to be 
thought; the other is the honest justice that a man of sense, who has 
thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. Without this standard, 
this column in our own mind, we are perpetually at the mercy of the 
petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the very weakness and 
wickedne.'-s of our fellow-creatures. 

I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doctrine which, I 
assure you, I sometimes need, and because I know that this causes you 
often much disquiet. To return to Mi.ss Nimmo. She is most certainly 
a worthy soul ; and equalled by very, very few in goodness of heart. But 
can she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? Not even prejudice 
will dare to say so. For penetration and discernment, Clarinda sees far 
beyond her. To wit, Miss Nimmo dare make no pretence : to Clarinda's 



404 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

•wit, scarce any of her sex dare make pretence. Personal charms, it would 
be ridiculous to run the parallel : and for conduct in life, Miss Nimmo 
was never called out, either nuich to do. or to sulfer. Clarinda has been 
both ; and has performed her part, where Miss Nimmo would have sunk 
at the bare idea. 

Away, then, with these disquietudes ! Let us pray with the honest 
weaver ot Kilbarchan, " Lord, send us a gude conceit o' oursel'!" or in 
vhe words of the auld sang, 

" Who docs me disdnin, I can scorn them ngnin, 
And I'll never mind any such foes." 

There is an error in the commerce of intimacy. . . . 

Happy is our lot, indeed, when we meet with an honest merchant, who 
is qualitied to deal with us on our own terms; but that is a rarity: with 
alniost everybody we must pocket our pearls, less or more, and learn, in 
the old Scots phrase, " To gie sic like as we get." For this reason we 
should try to erect a kind of bank or storehouse in our own mind ; or, as 
the Psalmist says, " We should commune with our own hearts and be 
btill." ... 

I wrote you yesternight, which will reach you long before this can. I 
may write Mr. Ainslie before I see him, but I am not sure. 
Farewell I and remember 

Sylvander. 



No. cxxvin. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

[Jem Armour having been put to the door by her father, Burns felt bound to 
provide her an asylum. She bore twins (daughters), wiio died in a few days. 
Of the first pair of twins, born in September, 17S6, the girl ilied fourteen months 
jifler — the boy was taken charge of by his grandmother at Mossgiel.] 

Mauchi.ink, yth Mar\)i, 1788. 

I HAVE been out of the coimtry, my dear friend, and have not had an 
opportunity of writing till now, when I am afraid you will be gone out of 
the country too. I have been looking at tarms, and after all, perhaps I- 
may settle in the character of a farmer. 1 have got so vicious a bent to 
idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, that it will take 
no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into the routine; but you 
will say a "great eflort is worthy of you." I say so myself, and butter up 
my vanity with all the stimulating compliments I can think of. Men of 
grave geometrical minds, the sons of "which was to be demonstrated," 
may cry up reason as much as they please ; but I have always found an 
honest passion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the warfare of 
this world. Reason almost always comes to me like an unlucky wife to a 
poor devil of a husband — just in sulficient time to add her reproaches to 
his other grievances. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 405 

[After explaining )iis relations with Jean Armour, Burns says: — ] 

I am j^ratificd with your kind inquiries after her; as, after all, I may say 
with Otiiello — 

" F.xccllent wretch! 

I'crdilion tati;li my soul, but I do love thee." 

I go for Edinburgh on Monday. Yours, R. B. 

No. CXXIX. 

TO MR. R0I5KRT MUIR. 
DeAU Sir Mossgiei,, qth March, 1788. 

I have partly changed my ideas, my dear friend, since I saw you. 
L took old {^lenconncr with me to Mr. Miller's farm; and he was so 
pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which if he 
accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer — the happiest of lives when a man 
can live by it. In this case 1 shall not stay in Edinburgh above a week. 
1 .set out on Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock, but there are 
several small sums owing me for my first edition about (Jalston and 
Ncwmills, and 1 shall set off so early as to despatch my business and 
reach (Glasgow by ni^ht. When I return, I shall devote a forenoon or 
two to make .some kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness I owe 
your friendship. Now that I hope to settle with some credit and comfort 
at home, there was not any friendship or friendly correspondence that 
promised me more pleasure than yours ; I ho]je I will not be disajjpointed. 
I trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, and make your friends 
happy. You and 1 have often agreed that life is no great blessing, on the 
whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning age, is 

" Dark as was Cli.ios, crc tlic infant sun 
Was ri)llcd loKOther, or Iiad tried Ills beams 
Athwart the gliioin profound." 

But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the 
whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the 
valley, be it .so ; at least there is an end of pain, care, woes, and wants : 
if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent destruction of the 
man — away with old-wife prejudices and tales! Every age and every 
nation has had a different set of stories ; and as the many are always 
weak, of con.sequence they have often, perhaps always, been deceived. 
A man conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow- 
creatures — even granting that he may have been the sport at times of 
Eassions and instincts — lie goes to a great unknown Being, who could 
ave no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy; who 
gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force. 

These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not far 
different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, 
particularly in a case where all men are equally interested, and where, 
indeed, all men are equally in the dark. 

Adieu, my dear Sir. God send us a cheerful meeting! — R. B. 



4o6 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CXXX. 

TO MRS. DUNI>OP. 
Madam Mossi'iel, 7/// March, 1788. 

The last paragr.ipli in yours of the 30th February atVccted me 
most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended )our letter. That I 
am often a sir.ner. w ith any little wit 1 have, 1 do contess : but I have 
taxed my recollection to no purpose to rind out when it was employed 
against you. 1 hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I 
do the devil — at least as Milton describes him; and though 1 may be 
rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in 
others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but 
you are sure of being respectable — }'0U can atTord to pass by an occasion 
to display your wit, because you may dej^end for fame on your sense ; or, 
if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of 
many and the esteem of all; but (.iod help us who are wits or witlings by 
profession : if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported! 

I am highiv flattered by the news you tell me of Coila.' I may say t(> 
the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross, 
the poet of his muse Scota. from which, by the by, I took the idea of 
Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which perhaps you 
have never seen) : — 

I ' Ye shake your hend, hut o' my fcgs, 

Ye've set auUl Scota ou her leijs : 
Lang had she lien \vi' belts and (legs, 

15uinbaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Wae's me, poor hizzie." 

R. B. 



No. CXXXI. 
TO MISS CH. ELMERS. 

[Burns left Mauchline on the loth of March to return to Edinburgh, and de- 
cided to lease a farm from Mr. Miller.] 

Edinburgh, Mixrch 14, 1788. 

I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will be pleased with the new: 
when I tell you I have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight 1 
completed a bargain with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton for the farm of Ellis- 
land, on the banks of the Nith, between live and six miles above Dumfries. 
I began at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, &c. ; and Heaven 
be my help! for it will take a strong elVort to bring my mind into the 
routine of business. I have dischargea all the army ot" my former pursuits, 
fancies, and pleasures — a motley host ! — and have literally and strictly 

' A daughter of Mrs. Dunlop was painting a sketch of Coila. 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 407 

retained only the ideas of a few friends, wliicli I liave incorporated into a 
lifeguard. I trust in Dr. Jolinson\s observation, -'Where much is 
attempted, somethinfi; is done." Firmness, both in sufferance and exer- 
tion, is a character I would wisli to be thought to possess; and have 
always despised the whining yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble 
resolve. 

Poor Miss [Kennedy, sister of Mrs. Gavin Hamilton] is ailing a good 
deal this winter, and begged me to rememi)cr her to you the first time I 
wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable woman is often made in vain. 
Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; too noble for 
the dirt of avarice ; and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure ; formed 
indeed for. and highly susce|)tible of, enjoyment and rapture; but that 
enjoyment, alas! almost wholly at the mercy of the ca])rice, malevolence,' 
stupidity, or v/ickcdness of an animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, 
and often brutal. — R. \^. 



No. CXXXII. 
SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Monday Noon \_-i-jih March'\. 

I WILL meet you to-morrow, Clarinda, as you appoint. My Excise 
affair is just concludedi, and I have got my order for instructions : so 
far good. Wednesday night I am engaged to sup among some of the 
principals of the Excise, so can only make a call for you that evening; 
but next day, I stay to dine with one of the Commissioners, so cannot go 
till Friday morning. 

Your hopes, your fears, your cares, my love, are mine: so don't mind 
them. I will take you in my hand through the dreary wilds of this world, 
and scare away the ravening I)ir(l or beast that would annoy you. I saw 
Mary in town to-day, and asked her if she had seen you. I shall certainly 
bespeak Mr. Ainslie, as you desire. 

Excuse me, my dearest angel, this hurried scrawl and miserable paper: 
circumstances make both. Farewell till to-morrow. 

Sylvander. 



No. CXXXIII. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Morning [:SiA March]. 

I AM just hurryinf' away to wait on the Great Man, Clarinda; but I 
have more respect to my own peace and happiness than to set out without 
waiting on you; for my imagination, like a child's favourite bird, will 
fondly flutter along with this scrawl, till it perch on your bosom. I thank 
you for all the happiness you bestowed on me yesterday. The walk — 



4o8 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

delightful; the evening — rapture. Do not be uneasy to-day, Clarinda; 
forgive nie. I am in rather better spirits to-day, though 1 had but an 
inditVercnt night. Care, anxiety, sat on my spirits ; and all the cheertul- 
ness of this morning is the tVuit of some serious, important ideas that lie, 
in their realities, beyond *■ the dark and the narrow house." as (.Xssian, 
prince oi poets, says. The Father of Mercies bo with you, Clarinda! and 
every good thing attend you ! 

Sylvander. 



No. CXXXIV. 

sYLv.vxnr.R ro cl.vrind.v. 

Wi-J»csJi\y Mornini^\\<itli ytarchi\. 

Clarinda, will that envious night-cap hinder you from appearing at 
the window .is 1 pass? "Who is she that looketh torth as the morning; 
fair as the sun. clear as the moon, terrible as an army with banners ?"" 

Do not accuse me of fond folly for this line ; you know I am a cool 
lover. I mean by these presents greeting, to let you to wit, that arch- 
rascal Creech has not done mv business yesternight, which has put otf my 
leaving town till Monday morning. To-morrow at eleven I meet with 
him for the last time ; just the hour I should have met far more agreeable 
company. 

You will tell me this evening whether you cannot make our hour of 
meeting to-morrow one o'clock. I have just now written Creech such a 
letter, that the very goose-feather in my hand shrunk back from the line, 
and seemed to say, "I exceedingly fear and quake!" 1 am forming ideal 
schemes of vengeance. . . . Adieu, and think on 

SVLVANDER. 



No. CXXXV. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Friday, Nine o'clock, Ni^hi \i\si March'\. 

I .A.M just now come in, and have read your letter. The first thing I 
did was to thank the divine Disposer of events, that He has had such 
happiness in store tor me as the connexion I have with you. Life, my 
Clarinda. is a weary, barren path ; and woe be to liim or her that ventures 
on it alone! For me, I have my dearest partner of my soul: Clarinda 
and I will make out our pilgrimage together. Wherever I am, I shall 
constantly let her know how I go on, what I observe in the world around 
me, and what adventures I meet with. Will it please you, my love, to 
get every week, or at least every fortnight, a packet, two or three slieets, 
full of remarks, nonsense, news, rhymes, and old songs? Will you open, 
with satisfaction and delight, a letter from a man who loves you, who has 
loved you, and who will love you to death, through death, and for ever? 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 409 

Oh, Clarinda! what do 1 owe to Heaven for blessing me with such a 
piece of exalted excellence as you! I call over your idea, as a miser 
counts over his treasure. Tell me, were you slutlious to please me last 
night? I am sure you did it to transport. How rich am I who have such 
a treasure as you ! You know me; you know how to make me happy; 
and you do it most effectually. God bless you with 

" Ixing life, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend! " 

To-morrow night, according to your own direction, I shall watch the 
window : "tis the star that guides me to paradise. The great relish to all 
is, that Honour, that Innocence, that Religion, are the witnesses and 
guarantees of our happiness. "The J-ord <iod knowelh," and perhaps 
"Israel he shall know," my love and your merit. Adieu, Clarinda! I am 
going to remember you in my prayers. 

Sylvander. 

No. CXXXVI. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Glasgow, 'Mh March, 1788. 

I AM monstrously lo blame, my dear .Sir, in not writing to you, and 
.sending you the Directory. I have been getting my tack extended, as I 
have taken a farm, and I have been racking shop accounts with Mr. 
Creech; both of which, together with watching, fiitigue, and a load of 
care almost too heavy for my shoulders, have in some degree actually 
fevered me. I really forgot the Directory yesterday, which vexed me ; 
but I was convulsed with rage a great part of the day. — R. B. 



No. CXXXVII. 

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

[Burns's c.irc anrl .inxicty at this lime were clue not merely U> business arr.nnpje- 
mcnts, hut t(j the news he liad just received tif the birth and speedy death of his 
offs])ring by Jean Armour.] 

Mauchi.inr, -51^/ March, 1788. 

Ykstekday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a track of melan- 
rholy, joyless muirs, between Calloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I 
turned my thoughts to ];salms and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and 
your favourite air, "Captain O'Kean," coming at length into my head, I 
tried these words to it. You will sec that the first part of the tune must 
be repeated. 

The small birds rejoice in the preen leaves returning, 
The miirmuriiif; strc:iinl<;t winds tlcar ihrouyh the vale; 

The hawthorn trees blov/ in the dew of the morning, 
And wild scattered cowslips Ijedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 

While the lingering moments are numbered by tare? 
No flowers gaily Rpringing, nor birds swcclly singing, 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 



4IO THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



I am toleniblv pleased with thoso vorsos ; Init as I luvo only a sketch 
of the tune, 1 leave it with you to try it" they suit the uieasuie ot" the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety about lliis larminc; iiioject of 
mine, that my muse has detienerateil into tlie veriest prose-wencii that 
ever picked cimlers or followed a tii\ker. When 1 am tairl\- <>ot into the 
routine of business, I shall trouble you with a lonsicr epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries resixnting tarming: at present, the world sits such a 
load on my mind, that it has efiaced almost every trace of the poet in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes to JNIrs. Cleghorn. — R, B. 



No. CXXXVIII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, 

KOINIU'RCU. 

Mauciii.ink, ^^h April, 1788. 
I iiAVK not delayed so long- respectini;- you, my much respected friend, 
because 1 thouglu no farther of my promise. 1 have lonji' since _<iiven up 
that kind of formal correspondence, where one sits down irksomely 
to write a letter, because we think we are in duty bound so to tlo. 

I have been roving over the country, as the iarm 1 have taken is forty 
miles from this place, hiring servants and prejiaring matters; but most of 
all, 1 am earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own mind. 
As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy master of 
ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn; atld to this, my late 
scenes of idleness and ilissipation have enervated my minil to an alarming 
degree. Skill in the sober .science of lite is my most serious and hourly 
study. 1 have dropt all conversation and all reading (prose reailing) but 
what tends in some way or other to my serious aim. Except one worthy 
young fellow, 1 have not one single corres]iondenl in lalinburgh. You 
have indeed kindly made me an olVer of that kind. The world of wits 
and ,i,Yv/.f continc il font which I latel\- left, and with whom I never again 
will intimately mix — from that port. Sir, I expect your Ga/ette : what /(?.f 
beaux ('Sprits :\vc saving, what they are doing, and what they are singing. 
Any sober intelligence from my sequestered walks of life; any droll' 
original; any passing remark, important forsooth, because it is mine; ai\v 
little poetic eflort, ^lowever emliryoth ; these, my dciu" Sir, aie all you 
have to expect from me. When 1 talk of poetic eflbrts, 1 must have it 
always understootl that 1 apjieal from your wit and taste to your friend- 
ship and good-nature. The lirsl would be my favourite tribunal, where I 
defied censure; but the last, where I tleclined justice. 

I have scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. When 1 meet 
with an okl Scots air that has any facetious idea in its name. 1 have a 
peculiar i)leasuro in following out th;'.t idea lor a verse or two. 

I trust that this will lind you in better health than I did last time I 
called for you. A few lines from you, directed to me at iMauchline, were 



7 'IfE I. /•: 7 ' 7 A US OF li URf^S. 4 1 1 



it but to let me know how you are, will set my mind a good deal [at rest] . 
Now, never shun the idea of writing me, because perhaj)S you may be 
out of humour or spirits. I could give you a hunrlred good consequences 
attending a dull letter; one, for example, and the remaining ninety-nine 
some other time — it will always serve to keep in countenance, my much 
respected Sir, 

Y(ju/ obliged Friend and humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CXXXIX. 

TO MISS ciialmf:rs. 

Mai;ciii.ine, y/Zz April, 1788. 

I AM indelitcd to you and Miss Nimmo for letting me know Miss 
Kennedy. Strange, how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg- 
ments of one another! Even I, who pique myself on my skill in marking 
characters — because I am tof) [jroud of my character as a man to be 
daz/led in my judgment for glaring \vealth, and too ]jroud of my .situation 
as a poor man to be biassed against s(iualid poverty — 1 was unacquainted 
with Miss K.\s very uncommon worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive \n mon f^rmtd but — the sober 
science of lite. I have lately made some .sacrifices, for which, were I 
invd voci: with you to paint the situation and recount the circumstances, 
you would applaud me. — K. B. 

CXL. 

Tf) MR. JAMKS SMITH, 

AVON I'KiN'iiiKi.i), i.iNi.mroow. 

[Burns's allusion in llie precec]inj.j Ictlcr to the "sacrifices" he had made is 
supposrd to refer to his resolution to recognize jean Armour as his wife, and make 
her, in the friniili;ir country phrase, an honest wiiman. In the followinjj letter wa 
have the (irst distinct forni;il announcunient of liis new relations with Jean.j 

Maij-chi-INE, April 7.%, 1788. 

TiEWARR of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! Look on this as the 
opening of a correspondence, like the opening of a twenty-four gun 
battery ! 

There is no understanding a man properly without knowing something 
of his previous ideas — that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I know 
many who, in the animal muster, pass for men, that are the scanty 
masters of only one idea on any given subject, and by far the greatest 
part of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of ideas, 1-25 — 1-5 
— 175 (or some such fractional matter) ; .^o, to let you a little into the 
secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain clean- 
limbed, handsome, bewitching young hussey of your acquaintance, to 
whom I have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to my corpus. 



412 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



" Bode a rxibe aiiu wear it, 
Boile a poke an-l bear il," 

saj-s the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to presage ill-liuk ; ami as i>iy 
girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best ol women usually 
are to their partners ot' our sex. in similar eircumstances. 1 reekon «)n 
twelve times a brace ot" chiklren against 1 celebrate m\ iwelMh weikling- 
da\-. ... 

•* Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she was stealing sheep You 
see what a lamp I have hung up to lightei\ your jiaths, when you are idle 
enough to e.xplore tiie combinations and relations ot my ideas. 'Tis now 
as plain as a pikestatV why a twenty-tour gun battery was a metaphor 1 
couUl reailily emplov. 

Now lor business. I inteiul to jnesent Mrs. lUirns with a printed 
shawl, an article of which 1 ilaresay vou have variety: 'tis my first present 
to her since 1 have irrevocably calleii her mine ; and I have a kind of 
whimsical wish to get the first saiil present from an old and nuich-valued 
friend of hers and mine — a trusty Trojan, whose tVienilshij) 1 count myself 
possessed of as a lite-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a " beginning of sorrows; " I will write vou till 
your eyes ache reading nonsense. 

Mrs. Tnuns ("tis only her private designation) begs her best compliments 
to you. — R. B. 



No. CXLL 

TO IMRS. Dl'MOr. 

Madam, Maivim.ink, .-sm .•(/"•'. wsa. 

Your powers of reprehension must be great indeeil, as 1 assure you 
tlicv made mv heart ache with penitential pangs, even though 1 was 
really not guilty. As 1 commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily 
giiess I must be pretty busy; but that is not all. As I got the otVer of the 
E.xcise business without solicitation, and as it costs me only six months' * 
attendance for instructions to entitle me to a commission — which com- 
mission lies bv me. anil at anv futvne period, on my simple jH-tilion, can 
be resumed — 1 tliougiit fivc-aiul-thirty pounds a-year was no bad tirritit-r 
ft'ssort for a poiir (loet, if Fortune in her jade tricks shouUl kick him down 
from the little eminence to which she has lately helpetl him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attemling these instructions, to have 
them completed before Whitsunday. Still, Nladam, 1 prepared with tiie 
sincerest pleasure to meet vou at the Mount, anil came to my brother's 
on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights preceding 
I had slept in an apartment where the force of the winds and rains was 
only mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in the 
windows, walls, iS:c. In consequence I was on Sunday. Monday, and 
part of Tuesday, unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable etlects of 
a violent cold. 

• Mistake for weeks. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 413 

You sec. Madam, the truth of the French maxim, le vrai ti'est pas 
toitjoitrs le vraiseinhlable. Your last was so full of expostulation, and 
was somet.hiri;( so like the lan;(ua^o of an offended friend, that I began to 
tremble for a cf^rresprnidence vvhi(.h 1 had with jiralcful pleasure set down 
as one of the greatest enioyments ui my future life. 

Your books have del);^nlerl me; Vir;^i!, Drydcn, and Tasso, were all 
equally strangers to rnc ; but of this more at large in my next. 

R. B. 



Nr. CXUI. 
TO PROFESSOR STEWART. 
SiK, lAKw:w.vnv,,T,d May, l^%Z. 

I enclose you one or two more of my baj^atelles. If the fervent 
wishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that great unknown 
Being who frames the chain of causes and events, fjrosperity and happiness 
will attend your visit to the continent, and return you safe to your native 
shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as my privilege to acquaint 
you with my progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could .say it 
with tnitli, that, next to my little fame, and the having it in my power to 
make life more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me, 
I shall ever regard your countenance, your patronage, your friendly good 
offices, as the most valued coasequcnce of my late success in life. 

R. B. 



No. CXLIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Madam, Mauchunk, t,ih May, 1788. 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the 
critics will agree with me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing entirely new to me, and has 
filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas ! when I 
read the (ieorgics, and then survey my own ])owers, 'lis like the idea of a 
Shetland pony, firawn uj) by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start 
for the plate. 1 own 1 am disap)>ointefl in the /I-incid. Faultless correct- 
ness may ])lea.sc, and does highly ])lease, the lettered critic; but to that 
awful character I have not the most distant ]jretensions. 1 do not know 
whether 1 do not hazard my ])retensions to be a critic of any kind, when I 
say that 1 think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If 
I had the Odys.sey by me, I could parallel many passages where Virgil 
has evidimtly copied, but Ijy no means imjjroved. Homer. Nor can I 
think there is anyth-ng of this owing to the translators; for, from every- 
thing I have seen of Drydcn, I think him, in genius and fluency of 
language, Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form an 



? 4^4 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

. _ ^ ^ . 

\ opinion — in some future letter you shall have mv ideas of him ; though I 
am conscious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and imperfect, as there 
I have ever felt and lamented my want of learning most. — i\.. B. 



No. CXLIV. 

TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. 

Dear Uncle, Mossciei,, 4M May, 178s. 

This I hope will find you and your conjugal yokefellow in your 

good old way. 1 am impatient to know if the Ailsa fowling be commenced 

lor this season yet, as 1 want three or four stones of feathers, and I hope 

you will bespeak them for me. It would be a vain attempt for me to 

enumerate the various transactions 1 have been engaged in since I saw 

you last, but this know, I engaged in a svu(ggling trade, and God knows 

if ever any poor man experienced better returns — two for one; but as 

freight and delivery have turned out so dear, I am thinking of taking out 

a licence and beginning in fair trade. I have taken a farm on the borders 

of the Nith, and, in imitation of the old patriarchs, get men-servants and 

maid-servants, and Hocks and herds, and beget sons and daughters. 

Your obedient Nephew, 

R. B. 
No. CXLV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

My dear Friend, MAucHUNE,.i/r7j'26, 1788. 

lam two kind letters in your debt; but I have been from home, 

and horridly busy, buyinj; and preparing for my farming business, over 

and above the plague of my Excise instructions, which this week will 

finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years' correspondence 
between us, 'tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles: a dull letter may 
j be a very kind one. I have the pleasure to tell you that I have been 
" extremely fortunate in all my buyings and bargainings hitherto — Mrs. 
Burns [Jean Armour] not excepted ; which title 1 now avow to the world. 
I am truly pleased with this last affair; it has indeed added to my_ 
anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stability to my mind a\-!d reso- 
lutions unknown before ; and the poor girl has the most sacred enthusiasm 
of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my every idea of her 
deportment. I am interrupted. Farewell, my dear Sir. — R. B. 



No. CXLVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Madam, =7'/' -'^"y' ^788. 

I have been torturing my philosophy to no purpose, to account for 
that kind partiality of yours, which has followed me, in my return to the 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 4^5 

shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, in the 
fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that " here I had no con- 
tinuing city ; " and, but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth and 
splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn companions of 
my road through life — insignificance and poverty. 

There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the 
good things of this life that give me more vexation (I mean in what I see 
around me) than the importance the opulent bestow on their trifling 
family affairs, compared with the very same things on the contracted 
scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or 
two at a good woman's fireside, where the planks that compose the floor 
were decorated with a splenchd carpet, and the gay table sparkled with 
silver and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a revolu- 
tion among those creatures, who, thougli in appearance partakers, and 
equally noble partakers, of the same nature with Madam, are from time to 
time — their nerves, their sinews, their heallli, strength, wisdom, experience, 
genius, time, nay a good part of their very thoughts — sold for months and 
years, not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the 
important few. We talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith- 
standing their general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor devils 
the honour to commend them. But light be the turf upon his breast who 
taught " Reverence thyself.'' We looked down on the uni)olished wretches, 
tlieir impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the 
little dirty ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness 
of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wantonness of his pride. — R. B. 

No. CXLVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MR. DUNI-Or's, IIAUDINCTON, 

[Burns was now fairly estalilished at Ellisland, getting the farm in order, and 
superintending the ereclii)n of a new hnuse. lie was alone, vexed with present 
cares and anxieties for the future, and miserably lodged. In Iniilding his farm- 
house. Rums had, according to y\llan Cunningham, to perform the jiart of super- 
intendent of the works — to dig the fouiulatit)ns, collect the stones, seek the sand, 
cart the lime, and see that all was performed according to the specifications.] 

Ellisland, \->,th [14//*/'] June, 1788. 
"Whf.re'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravellM, fondly turns to ihee; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags, at each remove, a lengthen'd chain." 

Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my 
farm. A solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every object 
I love, or by whom I am beloved ; nor any acquaintance older than 
yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while uncouth 



4 1 6 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 

cares and novel plans, hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful in- 
experience. There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour 
of care, consequently the dreary objects seem larger than the life. Extreme 
sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of 
misfortunes and disappointments, at that period of my existence when the 
soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the 
principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regard his single woes? &c." 

Your surmise. Madam, is just; I am indeed a husband. . . . 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger. My preservative from 
the first is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, 
and her attachment to me : my antidote against the last is my long and 
deep-rooted affection for her. 

In housewife matters, of aptness to learn and activity to execute she 
is eminently mistress ; and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is 
regularly and constantly apprentice to my mother and sisters in their 
dairy and other rural business. 

The Muses must not be oiTended when I tell them the concerns of my 
wife and family will, in my mind, alwa)s take the pas; but I assure them 
their ladyships will ever come next in place. 

You are right that a bachelor state would have insured me more 
friends ; but, from a cause 3'ou will easily guess, conscious peace in the 
enjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching 
my God, would seldom have been of the number. 

I found a once much-loved and still rnuch-loved female, literally and 
truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements ; but I enabled her to 
purchase a shelter — there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness 
or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm 
heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more 
than commonly handsome figure; these, I think, in a woman, may make 
a good wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures 
of the Old and New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter assembly 
than a penny pay wedding. — R. B. 



No. CXLVIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

EllislaND, June 14 [15?], 1788. 

This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have sojourned in 
these regions ; and during these three days you have occupied more of my 
thoughts than in three weeks preceding: in Ayrshire I have several 
variations of friendship's compass, here it points invariable to the pole. 
My farm jives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but I hate 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 4 1 >] 



the language of complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says well — 
" Why should a living man complain? " 

I have lately been much mortified with contemplating an unlucky im- 
perfection in the very framing and construction of my soul; namely, a 
blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of craft 
or design in my fellow-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my 
ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence of the unsus- 
picious simplicity of conscious truth and honour: 1 take it to be, in some 
way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, metaphor apart, 
some modification of dulness. In two or three instances lately I have 
been most shamefully out. 

I h.Lve all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms amon^ 
thv light-horse — the picket-guards of fancy — a kind of hussars and High- 
Ir.inlrrs of the brain; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy 
bffllalions, who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege 
but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in 
among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery coips 
of plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what is the subject of your thoughts, 
besides the great studies of your profession.'' You said something about 
religion in your last. I don't e.xactly remember what it was, as the letter 
is in Ayrshire: but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly thought 
You will make a noble fellow if once you were married. I make no reser 
ration of your being well married : you have so much sense and knowledge 
of h'iman nature, that, though you may not realize perhaps the ideas of 
rom: iice, yet you will never be ill married. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation respecting provision 
for a fcimily of children, I am decidely of opinion that the step I have 
taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, I look to the Excise scheme 
as a certainty of maintenance. A maintenance ! — luxury, to what either 
Mrs. liurns or I was born to. Adieu ! — R. 13. 



No. CXLIX. 
EXTRACT FROM COMMONPLACE BOOK. 

Ellisland, Sunday, ntk [i$tk?] June, 1788.' 

Tuts is now the third day that I have been in this country. " Lord 
Vvfh it is man ? " What a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas, 
and fancies ! And what a capricious kind of existence he has here ! 
There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, virtue sole 
survives. 

" Tell us, ye dead; 



Will none of you i:i pity disclose the secret, 
Whnt 'tis you nre, and we must shortly be? 

A little time 

Will make us wise as you arc, and as close." 

■" Mr. K. Chambers suggests that the T4th of June, 1788, having been a Saturday, it maybe 
surmised that Burns wrote several dates at this time a day too early. 



4 1 S THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 



I am sudi a coward in life, so tired of the service, tliat I would almost at 
any time with Milton's Adam, "gladly lay me in mv mother's lap. and he 
at peace." 

But a wife and children bind me to struggle with the stream, till some 
sudden squall shall overset the silly vessel; or, in the listless return ot 
yeai-s. its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy 
Follies, those varnished vices, which, though half sanctified by the bewitch- 
ing levity of wit and humour, are at best but thriftless idling with the 
precious current of existence ; nay. often poisoning the whole, that, like 
the i^lains oi Jericho, the -water is naui^/it and tlie groiiiui barren, and 
nothing short of a suiiernaturally-gifteil Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

Wedlock — the circumstance that buckles me hardest to care — if virtue 
and religion were to be anything with me but names, was what in a tew 
seasons 1 must have resolved on : in my present situation it was absolutely 
necessary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of character, justice to my 
own happiness for after lite, so far as it coulil depend (which it surely w'ill 
a great deal) on internal peace; all these joined their warmest sutlr:\ges, 
their most powerful solicitations, with a rooted attachment, to urge "the 
step I have taken. Nor have I any reason on her part to repent it. I 
can tancy how, but have never seen where, 1 could have made a better 
choice. Come, then, let me act up to my favourite motto, that glorious 
passage in Young — 

" On re:ison Iniiltl resolve, 
That coluiuu oftuic m.ijcsty in man! " 



No. CL. 

TO :\IR. R015ERT .\IX.^L!E. 

My r)E.A.R Sir. f.ilisiand, 30M 7//«c, 178S. 

I just now received your brief ejiistle ; anil, to take vengeance on 
your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
have begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very 
last corner. 

I am vexed at tliat aftair of the .... but dare not enlarge o\\ the 
subject until you send me your direction, as I suppose that will be altered 
on your late master and friend's death [Mr. Samuel Mitchelson, W.S.] 
1 am concerned for the old fellow's exit only as I fear it may be to your 
disadvantage in any respect ; for an old man's dying, except he have 
been a very benevolent character, or in some particular situation of life 
that the welfare of the poor or the heliiless dependeil on him, I think it an 
event of the most trifling moment to the world. Man is naturally a kind, 
benevolent animal, but he is dropped into such a needy situation here in 
this vexatious world, and has such a whoreson, hungry, growling. multi- 
Inlying pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires alnnit him, 
r,-ady to devour him for want of other food, that in fact he must l.iy aside 
his cares for others that he may look property to himself. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 419 



I desire the carrier to pay you ; but as I mentioned only fifteen shillings 
to him, I will rather enclose you a guinea-note. I have it not, indeed, 
to spare here, as 1 am only a sojourner in a strange land in this place ; 
but in a day or two I return to Mauchline, and there 1 have the bank- 
notes through the house like salt-permits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily of one's private 
affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new neighbours, 
who has made himself absolutely contemptible in my eyes by his silly 
garrulous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own too ; but from 
this moment I abjure it as I would the service of hell ! Your poets, 
spendthrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack 
their jokes on jjruflence ; but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. 
Still, imprudence respecting money matters is much more pardonable than 
imi)rudence respecting character. I have no objection to prefer prod- 
igality to avarice in some few instances; but I appeal to your observation 
if you have not met, and often met, with the same disingenuousness, the 
same hollow-hearted insincerity and disintegrative depravity of principle, 
in tlie hackneyed victims of profusion as in the unfeeling children of 
parsimony. I have every possible reverence for the much-talked-of world 
Ijeyond the grave, and 1 wish that which ]nety believes and virtue 
deserves may be all matter of fiict. But in things belonging to and 
terminating in this present scene of existence man has serious and 
interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with 
welcome in the distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink from contempt 
in the abject corner of insignificance; whether he shall wanton under the 
tropic of ]>]enty — at least enjoy himself in the comfortable latitude of easy 
convenience — or starve in the arctic circle of dreary ])overty ; whether he 
shall rise in a manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink 
beneath a galling load of regret and remorse — these are alternatives of 
the last moment. 

You see how I ])reach. You used occasionally to sermonize too; I 
wish you would in cliarity favour me with a sheet full in your own way. 
I admire the close of a letter Lord Holingbroke writes to I^ean Swift: — 
" Adieu, dear Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee entirely ; make an effort 
to love me with ail mine ! " Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is 
now such a prostituted business, that htjnest friendship, in her sincere way, 
must have recourse to her primitive, simple, Farewell ! — K. li. 



No. CLI. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[Mr. Peter Hill, Creech's chief assistant, who had now set up in business for 
himself.] 

Mauchline, 18M Jw/y, 1788. 

You injured me, my dear Sir, in your construction of the cause of my 
silence. From Ellisland in Nithsdale to Mauchline in Kyle is forty and 



4 2 o THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



five miles. There a house a-buildint:;, and farm enclosures and improve- 
ments to tend; here a new — not indeed so much a new as -x youiii;\\\{Q.: 
good God, Sir, could my dearest brother cxi)ect a regular correspondence 
from me ! . . . I am certain that my liberal-minded and much-resijected 
friend would have acquitted me, though 1 had obeyed to the very letter 
that famous statute among the irrevocable decrees of the Medes and 
Persians, not to ask petition, for forty days, of either God or man, save 
thee, O ()ucen. only ! 

I am highly obliged to you, my dearest Sir, for your kind, your elegant, 
compliments on my becoming one of that most respectable, that truly 
venerable, corps, they who are, without a metaphor, the fathers of 
posterity. . . . 

Yourbook came safe, and I am going to trouble you with further com- 
missions. I call it troubling you — because I want only bo.iks : the 
cheapest way the best ; so you may have to hunt for them in the evening 
auctions. 1 want Smollett's works, for the sake of his incomparable 
humour. I have already "Roderick Random" and " Humphrey Clinker ;" 
"Peregrine Pickle,"' "La'uncelot Greaves," and "Ferdinand Count Fathom," 
1 still want ; but, as I said, the veriest ordinary copies will serve me. I am 
nice only in the appearance of my poets. I forget tho price of " Cowper's 
Poems," but I believe I must have them. I saw the other day proi)osals for a 
publication entitled " Banks's New and Complete Christian's Family liible," 
printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster Row, London. He promises at least 
to give in the work, I think it is, three hundred and odd engravings, to 
•which he has put the names of the first artists in London. You will 
know the character of the performance, as some numbers of it are 
published ; and if it is really what it pretends to be, set me down as a 
subscriber, and send me the published numbers. 

Let me hear from you your first leisure minute, and trust me you shall 
in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The daz/.ling per 
ple.xity of novelty will dissipate, and leave me to pursue my course in the 
quiet path of methodical routine. — R. B. 



No. CLIL 
TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, 

MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 
My DEAR Sir, Mai-chune, i8C/< July, 1788. 

I am just going for Nithsdale, else I would certainly have tran 
scribed some of my rhyming things for you. The Miss Baillies I have 
seen in Edinburgh.' "Fair and lovely are thy works. Lord (iod Almighty 
Who would not' praise Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the 
sons of men?" It needed not your fine taste to admire them. I declare 
one day I had the honour of dining at Mr. Baillie's, I was almost in the 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 421 



])redicamen<: of the children of Israel, when they could not look on Moses' 
face for the glory that shone in it when lie descended from Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address from the Falls of liruar to his Grace 
of Athole when I was in the Highlands. When you return to Scotland 
let me know, and I will send such of my pieces as please myself best. I 
return to Mauchline in about ten days. 
My compliments to Mr. Purden. 

I am in truth, but at present in haste, yours, 

R. B. 



No. CLIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Honoured Madam, Mauchline, yi«^?«/ 2, 1788. 

Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight to Ayrshire. I am 

indeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but 

vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the 

noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write to you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, 
but I have scarce an oj^portunity of calling at a post-office once in a 
fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, 
and as yet have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Besides, I am 
now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house ; as at present I am 
almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce "where to lay 
my head." 

There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. 
" The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not 
therewith." The repository of these ".sorrows of the heart" is a kind of 
sanctum sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, at 
particular sacred times, who dares enter into them : 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords 
Tliat nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of 
entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote 
in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. 
They are almost the only favours the Muses have conferred on me in that 
country. . . . 

[Here follow ilie verses composed in the Friars' Carse Hermitage, given in page 82.] 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the production 
of yesterday, as 1 jogged through the wild hills of New Cumnock. I intend 
inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write 
to the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise hopes depend — Mr. 
Graham of Fintry, one of the worthiest and most accomijlished gentlemen 
not only of this country, but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The 



422 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



follovvii\^ are just the first crude thoughts " unhousel'd, unanointed, 
unaneard : " — 

Pity tlic tuneful Museo' helpless train; 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
The world were blest, did bliss on them depend; 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend! " 
The little fate bestows they share as soon; 
Unlike sage, proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
Ler Prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
; Who feel by reason and who give by rule; 

Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool ! 
Who make poor will do, wait upon I should; 
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're good? 

Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye; 
God's image rudely etched on base alloy ! 
But come . . ... 

Here the Muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of 
Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire in ten 
days from thisdate. 1 have just room for an old Roman " Farewell." 

R. B. 



No. CLIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, August [July?^ lo, 1788. 

My much honoured Friend, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another 
valued friend — my vvife — waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both 
with the sincercst ])leasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not set down to answer every para- 
graph of yours, by eclioing every sentinient, like the faithful Commons of 
(Jreat Britain in Parliament assembled answering a speecii from the best 
of kings. I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may perhaps 
be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not from your 
very odd reason, that I do not read your letters. All your epistles for 
several months have cost me nothing except a swelling throb of gratitude 
or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woman . . . When she 
first found herself "as women wish to be who love their lords," as I loved 
her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. Her 
parents got the hint ; and not only forbade me her company and their 
house, but, on my rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put me. 
in jail till 1 should find security in my about-to-be paternal relation. You 
know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my ccUitaiit return to Mauchline 
I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began 
to betray her ; and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, 
she was turned, literally turned, out of doors, and I wrote to a friend 
to shelter her till my return, when our marriage was declared. Her 



THE LE T VERS OF B URNS. 423 

happiness or misery was in my hands, and who could trifle with such a 
deposit? . . . 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable comijanion for my journey of life ; 
but, upon my iionour, I have never seen the individual instance. 

Circumstanced as I am, 1 could never have got a female partner for life 
who could have entered into my f;\vourite studies, relished my favourite 
authors, &c., without probably entailing on me, at the same time, expensive 
living, fantastic caprice, ])erhaps apish affectation, with all the other 
blessed boarding-school acquirements, which { pardonties iiioi, iiiadame) 
are sometimes to be found among females of the upi)er ranks, but almost 
universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry. . . . 

I like your way in your churchyard lucubrations. Thoughts that are 
the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health, 
place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, that 
would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and studied para- 
graphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter in progression 
by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, 
1 must tell you my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind is my 
pruriency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dis- 
social, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous reverie manner are a monstrous tax in a close 
correspondence. — R. B. 



No. CLV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Elliri.and, \(^th August, 1788. 

I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac 
epistle, and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian : — 

" Why droops my heart, with fancied woes forlorn? 
_, Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky? " 

My increasing cares in this as yet strange country — gloomy conjectures 
in the dark vista of futurity — consciousne.ss of my own inability for the 
stmggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and 
children — I could indulge these reflections till my humour should ferment 
into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings I have sat down to write to you; 
as I dechu^e upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign balm for 
my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterdav at i\Ir. Miller's [of Dalswinton] to dinner, for the first 
time. My reception was (|uite to my mind ; from the lady of the house 
quite flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two iviproinptu. 
She repeated one or two, to the admiration of all present. My suffrage as 
a professional man was expected : I for once went agonizing over the 
belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods. 



424 THE LET1ERS OF BURNS. 



independence of spirit and integrity of soul ! In the course of conversa- 
tion "Johnson's iMusical Museum," a collection of Scottish songs with the 
music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning — 

" Kaviui^ wimls arouml lier blowing." 

The air was much admired : the lady of tlie house asked me whose were 
the words. " Mine, Madam ; they are indeed my very best verses:" she 
took not the smallest notice of them! The old Scottish proverb says well, 
" King's caff is better than ither folks' corn." I was going to make a New 
Testament quotation about " casting pearls," but tliat would be too viru- 
lent, for the iaily is actually a woman of sense and taste. . . . 

After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is by 
no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few, fa\oured 
by partial Heaven, who.se souls are tuned to gladness amid riches, and 
honours, and prudence, and wisdom. I speak of the neglected many, 
whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days, are sold to the minions of 
fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a stanza 
of an old Scottish ballad, calleil " The Life and Age of Man," beginning 
thus : — 

" 'Twas in the sixteen tuindredth year 
Of Giici and fifty-three 
Frae Christ was born, that bonght us dear, 
As writings testihe." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in her 
girlish years: the good old man, for .such he was, was long blind ere he 
died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while my mother would sing the simple old song of " The Life and Age 
of Man. " 

It is this way of thinking, it is these melancholy truths, that make re- 
ligion so precious to the poor miserable children of men. If it is a mere 
phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of enthusiasm, 

" What trnth on earth so precious as the lie? " 

Mv idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the neces- 
sities of my heart give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for 
the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her C^.od ; the corre- 
spondence fi.xed with heaven ; the pious .supplication and devout thanks- 
giving, constant as the vici.ssitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet 
with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life? No: to 
find them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search 
among the obscure reces.ses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, and 
distress. 

1 am .sure, dear Madam, you are now more than ]ileased with the length 
of my letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of next week: and it quickens 
my pace to think that there will be a letter from you awaiting me there. I 
must be here again very soon for my harvest. — R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 425 



No. CLVI. 
TO MR. liEUCO, 

ENCRAVKK, KUINUUKGII. 

My dear Sir Elmsland, 9M Sept., 1733. 

There is not in Edinburgh above the number of the Graces whose 
letters would have given me so much pleasure as yours of tlie 3d instant, 
which only reached me yesterniglit. 

I am here on my farm, Inisy wilh my harvest; but for all that most 
pleasurable part of life called social communication, I am here at the 
very elbow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this 
country, in any degree of j^crfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose 
they only know in graces, prayers, &c., and the value of these they estimate, 
as they do their j)]aiding webs, by the ell. As for the Muses, they have 
as much an idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old capricious but 
good-natured hussy of a Muse — 

" By Vjanks of Nith I sat and wept 
When Coila 1 thought on: 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 
Tlie willow trees upon." 

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my " darling Jean ; " 
and then 1, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my l;ecoI)wcbbed 
lyre, much in tlie same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the 
.spokes of her spinning-wheel. 

I will send you the "Fortunate Sliepherdcss" as soon as I return to 
Ayrshire, for there I keep it wilh other precious treasure. I shall send it 
by a careful hand, as I would not for anything it should be mislaid or lost. 
I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or other grave Christian 
virtue ; 'tis purely a .selfish gratification of mv own feelings whenever I 
think of you. 

You do not tell me if you are going to be married. Depend upon it, if 
you do not make some foolish choice, it will be a very great improvement 
on the dish of life. I can speak from experience, though, God knows, my 
choice was as random as blind-man's buff. 

If your better functions would give you leisure to write me, I should 
be extremely hapjjy ; that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a regu- 
lar correspondence. I hate the idea of being obliged to write a letter. I 
sometimes write a friend twice a week, at other times once a quarter. 

1 am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author you 
mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his works ; 
'twas a glorious idea.' 

Could you conveniently do one thing? — whenever you finish any head, 
I should like to have a proof-cojjy of it. I might tell you a long story about 

' It has been suggested that the work in question was a collection of articles in a very frigid 
style by Creech. 



426 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



your fine genius ; but as what evervhody knows cannot have escaped you, 
I shall not say one syllable about it. 

If )ou see Mr. Nasmyth, remember me to him most respectfully, as he 
both loves and deserves respect; though, if he would jxiy less resjiect to 
the mere carcass of greatness, 1 should think him much nearer perfection. 

R. li. 



No. CLVII. 
TO MISS CHALMERS, 

EUINBUR(ia. 

El.l.ISLAND, NUAK DUMFRIES, .9c//. l6, 1788. 

Where are you? and how are you? and is Lady Mackenzie recovering 
her health? — for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will not 
think }ou have forgot me, Madam ; and for my part 

"When thee, Jerusalem, I forpet, 
Skill part from my right h.-iiid ! " 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea." I do not 
make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its fellows — 
rolling througli the crowd without bearing away any mark or impression, 
e.Kcept where they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather; and as you 
and your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselves much d, 
V Ci^ard dc iiioi, I sit down to beg the continuation of your goodness. 1 can 
truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, 1 never saw two whose esteem 
flattered the nobler feelings of my soul — I will not say more, but so much, 
as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you — hearts 
the best, minds the noblest, of human kind — unfortunate even in the 
shades of life — when I think I have met with you, and have lived more of 
real life with you in eight days than I can do with almost anybody I meet 
with in eight years — when I think on the im]M-obability of meeting you in 
this world again — I could sit down and cry like a child! If ever you 
honoured me with a place in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more 
desert. I am secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, 
alas ! is less or more fatal to the native worth and jiurity of, 1 fear, the 
noblest souls; and a late important step in my life has kindly taken me 
out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, however overlooked 
in fashionable license or varnished in fashionable i)hrase, are indeed but 
lighter and clee])er shades of villany. 

Shortly after my last return (o A)'rshire I married " my Jean.'' -This was 
not in conseciuence of the attachment of romance, jjerhaps ; but I had a 
long and much-loved fellow-creature's hajij^iness or misery in my determi- 
nation, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor have I any 
cause to repent it. If I have not got ])olite tattle, modish manners, and 
fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with the multiform 



rilE LETTERS OF BURNS. 427 



curse of hoanlinjf-scliool affcctalioii ; anrl I have f^ot llic liaiidsomcsl fij^iire, 
til J .sweetest teniiJer, tin; soiiiidest constitution, and tiu- i<iii(iest heart in tlie 
county. Mrs lUirns ijelieves, as firmly as iier creed, that 1 am le plus bel 
esprit et le plus Jioti/iele hoiiinn' \\\ the universe, although she scarcely 
ever in her life, except the Scri])tures of tiie Old and New Testament and 
tlie Tsalms of David in metre, sjjent five minutes tojjetiier on eiliier jjrose 
or verse. I must excei)t also from this last a certain late puljlication of 
Scots poems, which siie h.is perused very devoutly, and all the ballads in 
the country, as she has (" Oh, the i)artial lover!" you will cry) the lin^'st 
" wood-note wild " I ever heard, lam the more particular in this lady's 
character, as I Unow she will henceforth h.ive the honour of asliare in your 
best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as 1 am building my house ; for 
this hovel that 1 shelter in, wiiile occasionally here, is pervious to every 
blast that blows and every shower that tails ; and 1 am only preserved 
from being chilled to dealii by being su/focaled with smoke. I do not find 
my farm that pennyworth I was (aught to expect; but I believe in time it 
may be a saving bargain. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid 
aside idle t!clat, and bind every day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down, in a 
losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise instructions, 
and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If 
1 could set all before your view, whatever disrespect you, in common with 
the world, have for this business, 1 know you would apjjrove of my idea. 

1 will make no a|)olf)gy, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail ; I 
know you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. 
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of 
greatness! When ftillow-partakcrs of the .saine nature fear the same 
(jod, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, 
the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the .same .scorn at 
everything unworthy — if they are not in the dei)endence of absolute 
beggary, in the name of cominon sense, are they not equals? Anfl if the 
bias, the instinctive bias, of their soul run the .same way, why may they 
not be friends? 

When 1 may have an opDorlunily of sending this f leaven only knows. 
Shenstone says: "Wh-n one is confinid idle within doors by bad 
weather, thv." best aniidote again it (^,7////// is to icul the letters of or write 
to one's fri^'ud.;:'" in thit case, th -n, if tin,- w\alhiT continues thus, I may 
scrawl you h.ilf a quire. 

I very lately — namely, since h u'vest beg m — wrote a poem, not fn 
imitation, but in the manner, of I'ope's " .Vior.d Mjjistles." It is only a 
short essay, just to try the strength of my Muse's pinion in that way. I 
will send you a copy of it when once I have heard from you. I have 
likewise been laying the foundalion of soaie i)rettv large poetic works : 
how the supcrslruclure will come on I leave to that great maker and 
marrerof projects — time. Johnson's collection of Scots songs is going 
on in till- third volume; and, of conse(|iience, finds me a consum])t for a 
<^reat deal of idle metre. (Jne of the most tolerable things I h ive dfjne 
in that way is two stanzas 1 made to an air a musical gentleman of 



428 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



my acquaintance [I'niUain Ixidilcll (^i (Uonriddoli] composed for the 
anniversary of his \vt.Hlilin>;-il.iy, \vliii.Ii liappcns on the 7th ot November. 
Take it as follows : — 

[ 1 Icro i.'oiiu's "'riio i.h\y returns, my hosoin burns. '] 

I sliall jiive over this letter for sliame. If 1 slunild he seized with a 
scrihbliuij lit belore this goes away, I siiall malce it another letter; and 
tlien voti mav allow your [latience a we.-k's respite i)etween the two. I 
Iiave not rot)in tor nu^e than the old, kind, luarty farewell! 

To make some amends, incs chlrcs iiiesdai/u's, for draLjsiincf you on to 
tliis second sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstutlied 
and uneorrectible jirose, 1 shall transcribe )ou some of my kite ])oetic 
bagatelles; though I have, these eight or ten months, done very little that 
way. One da\ , in a hermitage on the banks of the Nitli, belonging to a 
gentleman in mv neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a key 
at pleasure, 1 wrote as follows, [" Friars' Carse Hermitage,"] supi)osing 
myself tlie sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the lonely mansion. . . , 

R. B. 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MK.S. DUN LOP, 

OK lU'N'l.Ol-. 

M.M'i. iiiiNE, 1^th Sept., 1788. 

I iiAVi^. received twins, dear Madam, more than once, but scarcely ever 
with more i)kasure than when 1 received yours of the 12th instant. To 
make myself understood: 1 had wrote to iMr. Ciraham, enclosing my 
poem addressed to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours 
brought me an answer from him. It was ilated the very day he had 
received mine; and 1 am (juite at a loss to say whether it was most polite 
or kinil. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work of a 
friend. They are not the lilasting depredations of a canker-tot)t]ied, 
caterjjillar critic ; nor are they the fair statement of cold impartiality, 
balancing with unfeeling exactitude the pro and con of an author's merits: 
tli*;y are the judicious observations of animated friendship, selecting the 
beauties of the [liece. 1 am just arrived from Nithsdale, and will be here a 
fortnight. 1 was on horseback this morning by three t)\Iock ; lor between 
my wife and my farm is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the il.uk, 
1 was taken with a poetic lit as follows : — 

(Here is Irnnsciilicil Mrs. l''ofL;iissi)n of Craii^dnrrorh's laincnialiun for llic ik-ath 
of liersou — .ui uncDuinujiily pron.ising youlli urci>;lilttn or niiii'tccn years oi a^e.'J 

' "The Mother's Lament" sorveil a (.lmil)lc purpose, liaviiii.; hi-iii liist written in reference to 
yonnii l'"er};iisson, anil llien ajiiilieil to ihc death of Alexander Gordon Slc\v.<rl, only son of Mis. 
Stewart of Afton, Bnrns's early patroness. 



rifE LETTERS OF li URNS. 429 



No. fI,IX. 

TO MR. i'i;ri;i< iiii.i,. 

MAi'Ciit.iNr., Mtt Octnfjer, 17S8. 

I ilAvr, l)Cf'n here in this roiinfry ;il)oiil fhicc rlnys, and all that time my 
chief read iiiji has been the " Adflres-, to i.oiidomond" [by the'Kev. iJr 
CririeJ you were .so ol>ii;^in^ as to send to me. Were I empannellefl one 
of till' aulhors jnry, to det('rmiiiat(; his criminality respectin;^ tiie sin of 
j)o;'sy, my verdiit should l>e"(iuilfy! A poet of Nature's makinj^ ! " It 
IS an excellent method for imj>rov(;i7ient, and wh.ic I believe every poet 
does, to place some fivourile classic autiior. in his own walks of^ study 
and compoution, before him as a model. Thou^^h your author h.id not 
mentioned the nunc, I could have, at h ilf a glance, j^ucssed his model to 
be Thomson. Will my brother poet forgive me if I venture to hint that 
his imitation of that immort.il bard is in two or three j;Iaces ratiier more 
servile than .such a genius as his required? — e.;^. 

" To .vtotliu llic iniiddcning panitionH all to pcicc." 

Addreti. 
"To Hoothc tlic llirolibing [lassions into pp.Trc." 

'I'lioMso:). 

I think the " Address" \^\n simjilicity, harmony, anfl elegance of vcrsifi 
cation, fully e(|ual to the "Seasons." Like I'liomson, too, he has looked 
into nature for himself: you meet with no copied description. One 
parlicul.ir criticism 1 made at first reading: in no one instance has he 
.said too mur.h. He never flags in his progress, but, like a true poet of 
Nature's making, kindles in his course. His beginning is simple and 
modest, as if (listrustful of thj strength of his pinion; only I do not 
altogether like — 

-"Truth, 



The soul of every song tliat's nol^Iy great 

Fiction is the soul of many a .song that is nobly great. Perhaps I am 
wrong: this may be but a jjrose criticism. Is not the jjhrase in line 7, 
page 6, "<ireat lake," too mu( h vulgarized by e very-day language for so 
.suljlime a jjoem? 

" (/rc;it mass of waters, ihcinc for nobler son 

is perhaps no (;mcn<lation. 1 lis cmmieration of a comparison wit.h fjther 
lakes is at once h unionious and jjoetic. Every reader's ideas must 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of a hundred miles." 

The perspective; that follf)vvs, mountains blue — the imprisoned billows 
beating in viin — the wooded isles — the digression on the yew-tree — 
"l>en Lomonfl's lf)fty, cloud-enveloped head," &c., are beautiful. A thunder- 
storm is a suijj<:ct which has been often tried, yet our poet in his granrl 
picture has interjected a cirt umslance, so far as 1 know, entirely 
original : ^ 

" 'i'hc ;;Ioom 

Deep scam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire." 



430 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

In his preface to the storm, " the glens how dark between," is noble 
Highland hindseape! The "rain i^loughing (lie reil monld," too. is beau- 
tifully fancieil. '* Hen Lomond's lofty, patlilcss top," is a gooil expression ; 
and the surrounding view from it is truly great : the 

- " silvor mist, 



l?oiic;Ul\ the bcaniiMg sun," 

is well described; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with a 
little of that passion which bids fair, 1 think, to usurp the modern Muses 
altogether. I know not how far this episode is a beauty upoa the whole, 
but the swain's wish to carry "some faint idea of the vision bright," to 
entertain her " partial listening ear." is a pretty thought. lUit in my 
opinion the most l)eautiful passages in the whole poem are (he fowls 
crowding, in wintrv frosts, (o Loch Lomond's "hospitable tlood," (iieir 
wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, ivc, and the glorious 
descrii)tion o'i the sportsman. Tiiis last is etjual to anything in the 
" .Seasons " The idea of " the filiating tribes distant seen, far glistering 
to tiie moon," provoking his eye as he is oliliged to leave tliem. is a noble 
ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," the •• hideous roar" of " (he 
\vhi(e cascades," are all in (he same style. 

1 forget that while I am thus holding forth with (he heedless warmdi of 
an enthusiast, 1 am perhaps (iring you wi(h i^onsense. 1 must, however, 
mention (hat (he last verse of the sixteenth page is one of (he mos( elegant 
complimen(s I have ever seen. I must liki'wise notice that beautii"ul 
paragra|)li beginning " 'I'lie gleaming lake," ivc. 1 dare not go in(o the 
particular beauties of (ho last (wo paragraphs, but llu'y are admirably line, 
and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your jiardon for this lengthened scrawl ; I had no idea \^{ it 
when I began. I should like to know who (he audior is: bu( whoever lie 
be, please present him with my gratel'ul thanks (or (he entertainment he 
has atTorded me. 

A friend of mine desired me to commissii>n for him two boc^ks — " Letters 
on the Religion ICssential (o Man," a book vi>u sent me be tore ; and "The 
World I'nniasked, or the I'hilosopher tiie (.Iieates( Cliea(." Send me (hem 
by (he lirs( opportunitv. The Bible you sent me is (ruly elegant. I only 
wish it luul been in two \olumes. — R. 15. 



No. CL\. 

TO TlIK KDiroR C)K TIIK "SIWR." 

[The following jnMtcst was calkul forlli as nuieli by the " dour " Calvinism as 
by (lie violent Whiggism of a tii;uiks.u;iving soniioii ])feached by the Rev. Mr. 
Kirkp;ilrick of nunscore, in accoixiaiice willi an order of the (.Icnecil Assembly, 
in memory " i>f that glorious event, (he Revolution."'] 

Sir, Novfinl;-r%,\-j^%. 

Notwithst.uuling (he opprobrious epithets with which some o^ 
our philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature — the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 43 1 

princii;lc of universal sclfislincss, the ])runene.ss to all evil, they have given 
us — still, the detestation in wliicli iuliumanily to the distressed or inso- 
lence to the fallen are held Ijy all mankind shows that they are not natives of 
tlic. human heart. JCven tin; vnihappy partner of our kinrl who is undone — 
tlie l)itter consef|uence of his follies or his crimes — who but sympathises 
with the miseries of this ruined profii;^ate brother? We f(>rget the inju- 
ri(;s, and feel for the man. 

I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to join in 
(ratefiil acknowledgment to the Author of all good for the consequent 
blessings of the gloiious Rev(jlution. To that auspicious event we owe 
no less than our liberties, civil and religious: to it we are likewise 
indebted for the present royal family, the ruling features of whose 
administration have ever been mildness to the subject and tenderness 
of his rights. 

iired and educated in Revf)Iution print i];lcs, the ]>rinci]jles of reason and 
common sense, it could not be any silly ];olitical prejudice which made my 
heart revolt at the harsh, abusive manner in whici) the reverend gejitleman 
mentioned the House of Stuart, and which, I am afraid, was too much 
tlie language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance 
from ])ast evils witiiout cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose 
misfortune it was, ijerhajjs as much as their crime, to be the authors of 
those evils; and we may bless (iod for all His goodness to us as a nation, 
without at the same time cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas and made attempts that most of us would have done had 
we been in their situation. 

"The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart" may be said with 
jjropriety and justice, when compared with the present royal family and 
tiie sentiments of our days ; but is there no allowance to be made for the 
manners of the times? Were the royal contemporaries of the Stuarts 
more attentive to their subjects' rights? Might not the epithets of 
"bloody and tyrannical" be, with at least equal justice, applied to the 
House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors. 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to be this : — At that period the 
.scierv:;e of government, the knowl .-flgc of the true relation between king 
and suljjecl, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in its 
infincy, emc^rging from dark ages of ignf)rance and barbarity. 

The Stuirts only contended f<jr jjrerogatives which tliey knew their 
];redecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contem]jc>raries enjoying; 
but these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness of a nation and th« 
riglits of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people — the consequence of thar, 
liglit of science which had lately dawn .-d over Europe — the monarch of 
I'r.mce, for example, was victorious over the struggling liberties of his 
i;eopIe : with us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable 
pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and hai)piness. Whether it was 
owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the juslling of parties, 
I cannot pretend to determine; but, likewise, happily for us, the kingly 
power was shifted into another branch of the family, who, as they owed 



432 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



the throne solely to the oil ot' a free peoj^le, couKl claim iiothinj^ ii\eon 
sistenl with I'ue covenanted terms which placed them there. 

The Suiarls have l)een condemneil ami lanjiiied at tor the lolly ani' 
impiacticahility of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. 1 hat they failed 
bless (.'.od. hut cannot join in the ridicule aj;ainst them. Who does r,ot 
know that the abilities or ilet'octs of leadei's ami cimunanders are often 
hidilen vmtil put to the touchstone <\\ e\i<ieucy, ami th.it there is a caprice 
of tortune. an oa\nipotence in particul.u" accidents and conjunctuies o 
circumstances, which ex.ilt us as heroos or brand us as m.ulmen. just as 
they are for or against us.-' 

iMan. .Mr. I'u'oiisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being: wl\o would 
believe, Sir. that in this our Augustan age of liberality and retinement. while 
wo seenv so justly .sensible and jealous of our rights and liln-riies. ami 
animated with such indignation against the very memory of those who 
Avoukl have subverted them, that a certain peoj^le under our national 
protection should complain, not against our monarch and a few t'a\ourilc 
advisers, but against our whole legisl.itive bodv. tor similar oppression 
and almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers did of the House ot 
Stu.\rt.'' 1 will not. 1 cannot, enter into the merits of the case; but I dare 
sav the American Congress in 1776 will be allowed \.<\ l>e as able and ;',s 
enlightened as the Jvglish Convention was in idiSS, and tli.it theii 
posteritv will celebr.ife the centenarv <^\ their deliverance I'rom us as duly 
and sincerely as we do ours iVom the oppressive measiiris ol the wiong- 
headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude. Sir: let every man who his a tear tor tlie many miseries 
incident to humanitv teel for a tamiiv i^ustriinis. as .mv in l'airt>pe. and 
unt'ortunate beyoiul historic i)recedenl ; and let every Urilon (,and p;u- 
ticularlv everv Scotsman) who over looked with reverential pity on tin 
dotage of a parent ^asl a veil o\er tiie lat.il mist.ikes (^i the kings of liis 
forefathers. — R. B. 



No. CI Xi. 

TO MRS. nuNT.or, 

AT MOKKIIAM MAINS. 

IVIaIIAM. Mat. iu iNi:, \ylh S'tn-enthfr, T7SS, 

I had the very great pleasure of ilining at Dunloi) yesterday. Men 
are said to llitter women because they are weak: if it be .so, poet a must 
bo- weaker still ; tor Misses R. and K. and Miss (I. M*K. with thei. 
llattering attentions and artful compliments absolutely turned my head 
I own that thev tlid not lard me over as many a poet ik)es his patron; 
but they .so intoxicated me wiili tlieir sl\ insinuations and delicate 
inuendoes of complimeut, that if it li ul not been tor a lucky recolleclioi 
how much adilitional weight ami lustre your good opinion ami friondshi| 
must give me in that circle, 1 h.ul certainly looked ui)on myself as . 
pei-son of no sm;il' conseciuonce. I dare not s.iy one wonl how much I 



rilE LE7 VERS OF BURNS. 433 



w;i.s charTi<;<l with the Major's friendly, welcome, elegant manner, and 
afiile remark, lest I hhouM be thou;.;lit to balance my orientilisms of 
aj<pl)U->e over a^^ainst the fincHt qu':y ' in Ayrshire, wliieii he ma<le me a 
j^resc/it of to liel); and adorn my farm-stock. As it wxs on Hallow-day, 
J am determined annually, as that day returns, to der fjrate \u:r Iiorns with 
an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop, 

So .soon as I know of your arrival at iJunlojj, I will lake the first 
conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friendshij>, 
unrlcr the gu irantee <;f the Major's hospitality. There will soon he three- 
•score and ten miles of permanent dist;ince between us; and now that 
your frieiKlship anfl friendly correspondence is entwisted with the heart- 
strings of my enjoyment of life, 1 must indulge my.self in a happy day of 
" the fea.st of rca.sou and the flow of .soul." — K. li. 



No. CI.XII. 
TO I>H. lil.ArKI/XJK. 

RkVF.RF.N'D AN'D DF.AK Sjk, Macchunb, A^<ra/?w^^ri5, 1788. 

As I hear nothing of your motions, but that you are or were out 
of town, I «Io not knrjw where this may find you. or whether it will fmd 
you at all. 1 wrote vou a hjng letter, (hited from the land of matrimony, 
in June; but either it iiad not found you, or, what 1 drearJ more, it found 
you or Mrs. lilacklock in too precarious a state of health and spirits to 
lake notice of an idle packet. 

I have done manv little things for Johnson since I had the pleasure of 
seeing you; and 1 nave finisherl one piece in the way of i'ope's " Moral 
K]>islles : " but from your silence I have everytliing to f<;ar ; so I have only 
sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble lest they should too well 
suit the tfjne of your j;resent feelings. 

Ill a fortniglit I move, bag and Ijaggage, to Nithsdale : till then, my 
direction is at this j^lace ; after that period it will be at J'JIisland, near 
I>umfries. It would extremely oblige me were it but half a line, to let me 
know iiow you are, and where you arc. Can I be indifferent to the fate 
of a man to whom I owe so much — a man whom I not only esteem, but 
venerate ? 

My warmest good wishes and most resujectful comjjiments to Mrs. 
lilacklock and Miss Johnson, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more pleased 
with the step 1 took respecting " my Jean." Two things, from my ha|j|jy 
(Kperience, I set down as a|Kj|jhthegms in life — A wife's head is immaterial 
compared with her heart; and, "Virtue's (for wisdom, what poet pretends 
to it?J ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths arc peace." Adieu! 

R. li. 

' A young heilcr. 



434 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CLXIII. 
TO MR. J.VMKS JOHNSON, 

KNUU.WKK. 
My dear Sir, Mai'CHi.ink, Nm<t>Hhfr 15, 1788. 

I iKive sent you two uiore songs. It" you have got any tunes, or 
anything to correct, please send them by return of the carrier. 

1 can easily see, my ilear fVieml, that you will very probably have tour 
volumes. I'erhaps you may not tinU your account lucratively in this 
business; but you are a patriot tor the music of your country, and 1 am 
certain posterity will look on them.selves as highly indebted to your public 
spirit. Be not in a luur\' ; let us go on ct>rrectiv, and your name shall be 
immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming pretace for your third volume. I see every 
day new musical publications advertised; but what are they.'' (iaudy, 
painted butterflies of a day, and then vanish fore\er : but your work will 
outlive the momentary neglects of idle fashion, ami defy the teeth of lime. 

Have you never a fair goddess tliat leads you a wild-goose chase of 
amorous devo.ion? Let me know a tew of her qualities, such as whether 
she be rather black or fair, plump or thin, short ox tall, <S;c.,and choose 
your air, and 1 shall task my muse to celebrate her. — R. B. 



No. CLXIV. 

TO MRS. nUNLOP. 

MV DEAR HONOl'Rl^n FkIKXO, Ei.msi.and, 17M Decembtr, 178S. 

Yours dated I'tlinburgh. which I have just read, makes me very 
unhappy. ".Almost blind antl wholly deaf" are melancholy new^s of human 
nature ; but when told of a much-loved and honoured tViend, they carry 
misery in the sound. Goodness on your part and gratitude on mim* 
began a tie which has gratlually entwisted itself ;uiiong tiie dearest chords 
of my bosom, and. I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing 
habit' and shattered health. You miscalculate matters widely when you 
forbid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My 
small scale of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what 
you have lately seen "at Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, the 
heart of the man and the tancy of the poet are the two grand considera- 
tions for which I live : if mirv ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross 
the best part of the functions of my soul in.mortal, I had better been a 
rook or a m;igpie at once, and then I shinild not have been jiLigued with 
any idea superior to breaking of clods and picking up grulis ; not to 
mention bar?i-door cocks or mallards — creatures with which I cinild almost 
exchange lives at any time. If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit 
will be no great pleasure to either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 435 



again as to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, Madam, for I 
will make my threatening good. I am to be at the New Year Day fair 
of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, friend, 1 will come and 
see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old schoolfellow 
anrl friend was truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world ! they 
sjjoil these "social offsprings of the heart." Two veterans of the "men of 
the world " would have met with little more heart-workings than two old 
hacks worn out on the road. Aprojjos, is not the Scotch phrase, " aula 
lang syne," exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune 
which has often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast 
in old .Scotch .songs. I shall give you the verses on the other .sheet, as I 
suppose Mr. Ker will save you the postage. — R. V>. 



No. CLXV. 
TO MISS fJAVIES. 

Madam, December, 1788. 

I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr. Riddel, has informed 
you that I have made you the suljject of some verses. There is something 
so provoking in the idea of being the burthen of a ballad, that I do not 
think Job or .Moses, though such ijatterns of patience and meekness, could 
have resisted the curiosity to know what that ballad was : so my worthy 
friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say he never intended, and 
reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity un- 
gratified, or else disgusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished produc- 
tion of a random moment, and never meant to have met your ear. 1 have 
heard or read somewhere of a gentleman who had some genius, much 
eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In the 
accidental group of life into which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman 
met with a character in more than ordinary degree congenial to his heart, 
he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, he said, as a nota bene, to 
point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. What this gentle- 
man's pencil was to him, my muse is to me; and the verses I do myself 
the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he 
indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice than the 
delicacy of my taste, but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt with the 
insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet with a 
person " after my own heart," I po-.itively feel what an orthodox I-'rotestant 
would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like insjjiration; 
and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than an /^^^olian harp 
can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two would be the 
consequence, though the object which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age ; 
but where my theme is youth and beauty, a young lady whose personal 
charms, wit, and sentiment are equally striking and unaffected — by 



43^ 'I' I II'' i-i-yn'i'.Ks or iniRNs. 



heavens ! thciigli I luul lived threescore years a married man, and three- 
score years bciorc 1 was a married man, my imagination would hallow the 
very idea; and 1 am truly sorry that the enclosed stanzas have done such 
poor juslicu lo such a subject. — R. li. 



No. CLXVI. 
TO MR. JOHN TMNNANT. 

Dccevtbrr 22, 1788. 

I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whisky for the first time, and I assure 
you it does you great credit. It will bear five waters, strong, or six, 
ordinary, toddy. The whisky of this country is a most rascally liquor; 
and, by consequence, only drunk by the most rascally part of the 
inhabitants. 1 am persuaded, if you once get a footing here, you might 
do a great deal ot business in the way of con.sumpt ; and should you 
commence distiller again, this is the native barley country. 1 am ignorant 
if, in your present way of dealing, you would think it worlh your while to 
extend your business so far as this country side. 1 write you this on the 
account of an actidenl, which 1 must take the merit of having partly 
designed to. A neighbour of mine, a John Currie, miller in Carse-mill — a 
man who is, in a word, a " very " good man, even for a £ 500 bargain — he 
and his wife were in my house the lime 1 broke open the cask. 'I'hey 
keep a country |)ul)lic-house, and sell a great deal of foreign spirits, but 
all along thought that whisky would have degraded their liouse. They 
were perfei:tly astonished at my whisk)', both for its taste and strength ; 
and, by their desire, I write you to know if vou could supply them with 
liquor of an ecjual (]uality, and wiiat i)rice. Please write me by first post, 
and direct to me at Ellisland, near IXunfries. If you could take a jaunt 
this way yourself, I have a spare s])oon, knife, and fork, very mucii at your 
service. My compliments to Mrs. Tennant and all thi; good folks in 
Glenconner and liarquharry. — R. 13. 



No. CLXVII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSMANK. 

Elusland, \Decfmber'\ 1788. 

I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer all the iKuticulars of your 
last kind letter. 1 shall be in Edini)urgh on some business very soon ; 
and as 1 shall ije two days, or perliaps three, in town, we shall discuss 
matters iihni voce. My knee, 1 believe, will never be entirely well ; and 
an unlucky fall this winter has made it still worse. I well remeinber the 
circumstance you allude to resixctiiig Cieech's o|)inion of Mr. Nicol; but 
as the first gentleman owes me still alioul fifty pounds, 1 dare not meddle 
in the affair. 

It gave me a very heavy heart to read such accounts of the consequence 
of your quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-commissioned 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 437 



scoundrel, A . If, notwithstanding your unprecedented industry in 

public and your irrcproachaI)lc conduct in private life, he still has you so 
much in Lis power, what ruin may he not bring on some others 1 could 
name ? 

Many and happy returns of seasons to you, with your dearest and 
worthiest friend, and the lovely little pledge of your happy union. May 
the "reat Author of life, and of every enjoyment that can render life 
dcliglitful, make her that comfortable blessing to you both which you so 
ard(.ntly wish for, and which, allow me to say, you so well deserve ! (fiance 
over the foregoing verses, and let me have your blots. Adieu! — R. B. 



No. CLXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, New-yea r-day Morning, 1789. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and v>'ould to God that I 
came under the Apostle James's description ! — " the jjrayer of a righteous 
man avai!<.'tii much." In that case, Madam, you sliould welcome in a year 
full of blessings: everything that obstructs or disturi)s tranquillity and 
sclf-enjoymenl should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity 
can taste should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I 
approve set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, 
tor breaking in on that habituated routine of life and thought wliich is so 
apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and 
with some minds, to a state very little superior to mere machinery. 

This day — tlie first Sunday of May — a breezy, blue-skied noon some 
time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn— these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind 
of holiday. 

1 believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, " The Vision 
of Mirza," a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capable of 
fixjng an idea to a word of three syllables : " On the sth day of the moon, 
wliich, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, 
after having washed myself and offered up my morning devotions, I 
ascended the high hill of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in 
meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of 
our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them that one 
should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, which 
on minds of a different cast makes no extraordinary impression. I have 
some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, 
the harebell, the foxglove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the 
hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I 
never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or 
the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey jjjovers in an autumnal 
morning, without feeling an elevation of "soul like the enthusiasm of 
devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing? 



438 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the y^olian harp, passive takes 
tile impression of the passing accident? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the trodden clod? I own myself partial to 
such proofs of those awful and important realities — a God tliat made all 
things — man's immaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or 
wo beyond death and tl.e grave ! — R. B. 



No. CLXIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
SlI^ Elusi.and, 4/// Jiitiuary, 1789. 

As often as I think of writing to you, which has been three or four 
times every week those si.\ months, it gives me something so like the idea 
of an ordinary-sized statue otfering at a conversation with the Rhodian 
Colossus, that mv mind misgives me, and the aflair always miscarries 
somewhere between purpose and resolve. I have at last "ot some business 
with you, and business letters are written by the style-book. I say my 
business is with you. Sir; for you never had any with me, except the 
business that benevolence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a i^oet were formerly my pleasure, 
but are now my pride. 1 know that a \ery great deal of my late c'clat 
was owing to the singularity of my situation and the honest prejudice of 
Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, I do look 
upon myself as having some pretensions from Nature to the poetic 
character. I have not a doul)t but tiie knack, the aptitude to learn the 
Muses' trade, is a gift bestowed i)y Him "who forms the secret bias of the 
soul ; " but 1 as firml\- believe that cxctilcnce in the profession is the fruit 
of industry, labour, attention, and pains — at least 1 am resolved to try my 
doctrine by the test of experience. ^Vnother appearance from the press 
I put otT to a very distant day — a day tiiat may never arrive; but poesy 
I am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has given very 
few, if any, of the profession tlie talents of shining in every species of 
composition. I shall try (for until trial it is impossible to know) whether 
she has qualified me to sliine in any one. The worst of it is, by the time 
one has finished a piece, it has been so often viewed and reviewed before 
the mental eye, that one loses in a good measure the powers of critical 
discrimination. Mere the best criterion I know is a friend, not only ot 
abilities to judge, but with good-nature enough, like a prudent teacher 
with a young learner, to praise jierhajis a little more than is exactly just, 
lest the thin-skinnetl animal fall into that most deplorable of all jKietic 
diseases — licart-breaking desiiondoncy of himself. Dare I, Sir, already 
immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the additional obligation of 
your being that friend to me? I enclose you an essay of mine, in a walk 
of poesy to me entirely new; I mean tlie Epistle addressed to R. G., Ksq., 
or Robert Ciraham of Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, to 
whom I lie under very great obligations. The story of the poem, like 
most of my poems, is connected with my own story ; and to give you the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 439 

one I must j^ve you something of the other. I cannot boast of Mi. 
Creech's ingenuous fair-dealing to me. He kept me hanging about Edin- 
burgh from tlic 7tli August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1788, before he would 
condescend to give me a statement of aifairs; nor had I got it even then, 
l)ut for an angry letter I wrote him, Vt'hich irritated his jjrifle. " 1 could '' 
not "a tale," but a detail, "unfold;" but what am I that shouhl speak 
against the Lord's anointed liailie of lulininirgh. 

I believe I shall in whole, /,ioo co]jyright included, clear aljout ^400 
some little odds; and even ]5art of this depends ujKjn what the gendeman 
has yet to settle with me. I give you this information, Ijccause you did 
me the honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. I give you this 
information, but I give it to yourself only; wr 1 am still much in the 
gentleman's mercy. Perhajjs I injure the man in the idea i am sometimes 
temi;ted to have of him: (iod forbid I should! A little time will try, U)r 
in a month 1 shall go to town to wind up tiie business, if possible. 

To give the rest of my story in brief: I have married "my Jean," and 
taken a farm. With the first step I have every day more and more reason 
ti; be satisfied; with the last it is rather the reverse. I have a younger 
brother, who supi^orts my aged mother ; another still younger brother, 
and three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from Edinburgh it cost 
me about ^180 to save them from ruin. Not that I have lost so much : I 
only interposed between my brother and his impending fate by the loan of 
so much. 1 give myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on my 
part : I was conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty 
heavily charged, and I thought that throwing a little filial piety and 
fraternal affection into the scale in my favour might help to smooth 
matters at the ^rand rcckuniui^. There is still one thing wf)uld make my 
circumstances quite easy; 1 have an Excise-officer's commission, and I 
live in the midst of a country division. My request to Mr. Graham, who 
is (me of the commissioners of Excise, was, if in his power, to procure 
me that division. If I were very sanguine, I might hope that some of 
my great ]:)atrons might procure me a treasury-warrant for supervisor, 
surveyor-general, &c. 

' Thus, secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet Poetry, delightful maid," I 
would consecrate my future days. — R. I'>. 



No. CLXX. 

TO MR. ROIiKirr AINSI.IK. 

El. I. ISLAND, Janitary 6, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear Sir. May you be 
comparatively happy, up to your comparative vvcjrth, among the sons of 
men ; which wish would, I am sure, make you one of the most blest of 
the human race. 

I do not know if passing a " writer to the Signet" be a trial of scientific 
merit or a mere business of friends and interest. However it be, let me 
qu(ite you my two f^ivourite passaiges, which, though I have repeated them 



440 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



ten thousand times, still they nnisc my manhood and steel my resolution 
like inspiration. 

(In Rcnsoii huilil resolve, 

That cohiimi of tnic majesty in tiiaii. — Young. 

Hear, Alfred, licro of the state. 

Thy Genius Heaven's luj;h will declare; 

The triiiniiih of Ihc truly ureal. 

Is ncvtM-, never to despair! 

Is never to despair! — Masque of Alfred. 

I grant you enter the lists of life to struggle for bread, business, notice, 
and distinction, in common with hundreds. Hut who are they.-* Men 
like yourself, and of tliat aggregate I)ody your compeers, seven-tenths of 
them come short of your advantages, natural and accidental ; while two of 
lho.se that remain, citiier neglect their parts, as flowers blooming in a 
desert, or misspend their strength, like a bull goring a l)ranible bush. 

But to change the theme: I am still catering for Johnson's jniblication ; 
and among others I have brusheil up the following old favoiu-ite song a 
little, with a view to your worshij). I have only altered a word here and 
there; but if you like the humour of it, we shall tiiink of a stanza or two 
to add to it. — i\. 15. 

No. CLXXI. 

TO PROFESSOR DUOALD STEW.VRT. 

[Of the "Poet's Progress" liurns coni]wse(i several dctaclied pieces, hut none 
have been jireserved excei)t a dozen satirical lines, supposod to refer to Creech. 
Dr. CJrcgory's "iron criticism" related to the " Woiiiuleil II;iro."j 

Sfk, Ei.Lisi.ANi), 20/// Jan.. 1787. 

The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh a few days after I 
had tlie happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for the 
Continent. I have now added a few more of my productions, those for 
which 1 am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. Tiie piece inscribed to 
R. G., Esq., is a copy of verses 1 sent Mr. Graham of Eintry, accompanying 
a request for his assistance in a matter, to me, of very great moment. To 
that gentleman I am already doubly indebted for deeds of kindness of 
serious imi)ort to mv dearest interests, done in a manner grateful to the 
delicate feelings of sensibility. This poem is a species of composition 
new to me, but 1 do not intend it shall be my last essay of the kind, as 
you will see by the " Poet's Progress." These fragments, if my design 
succeed, are but a small part of the intended whole. I propose it shall 
be the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years: of course 1 do not 
wish it much known. The fragment beginnins^ " A little upright, pert, 
tu-t, &c.," I have not shown to man living, till I now send it ^ou. It 
forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it 
appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part 
I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching; but, lest 
idle conjecture should pretend to point out the original, jilease to let it be 
for your single, sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble, to a gentleman who has 



THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 44 1 

treated me with such marked benevolence and peculiar kindness — who 
has entered into my interests witii so mucii /.eul, and on whose critical 
decisions I can so fully depend? A poet as I am by trade, these decisions 
are to me of the last consequence. My late transient acquaintance 
amon^ some of the mere rank and file of j^reatncss, I resign with case ; 
hut to the distinji;uished champions of genius and learning, I shall be ever 
ambitious of being known. '1 he native genius and accurate discernment 
in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures, the justness (iron justice, for he has no 
i)OW(;ls (tf compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr. (jregory's remarks, 
and tiie delicacy of I'rofessor iJalzePs taste, I shall ever revere. 
1 siiall be in lldiiiljurgii some time next month. 
1 have the honour to be, .Sir, 

Your highly obliged and very humljle Servant, 

K. li. 

No. CI.XXII. 

TO IMSIIOI' GEDDKS. 

[I'isho]) John Ceddcs was liorn at I'^n/ic, Hanffsliirc, in 1735. He wascflucated 
at ihc .Scotch Roman ('atliolic College at Rome;, ordaiucfl [jriest in 1759, had 
cliaigc of a college in Madrid for several years, aiifl was consecrated Ijislxjp in 
1780. In 17S1 he returned to Scotland, and resided chiefly at Ivlinlnirgli, IjuI 
died in Al)erdeen in 1799. He had met die po<*t at Lord Nioniioddo's. Jiishup 
(ieddcs is often confounded willi another Roman Calh(jlic ecclesiastic and native 
of I'in/.ie, Dr. Alexander (jeddes, an eccentric hut learned man, who pul)lished a 
translation of llie Scriptures and various miscellaneous works, and who was 
auth(jr of the humorous .Scotch song 

" There was a wee bit wifickic." 
It docs not appear that Hums ever met Dr. A. (leddes. The hook to which he 
refers was a cojiy of the I'Minhurgli edition of his own ])oenis, to which he had 
made manuscrijit additions. The volume is now in the [jo.ssession of Mr. James 
Black, Detroit, America.] 

VeNEI<AI5I,K FaTIIKK, V^^^'r,\.^m>, Fehruary-id, 1789. 

As I am conscious that, wherever I am, you do me the honour to 
interest yourself in my welfare, it gives ine pleasure to inform you, that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious business of life, and have now 
not only the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to those 
great and imijortant <|uestions — wiiat I am.'' where 1 am? and for what I 
am destined. 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever but one 
side on which I was habitually blameable, and there I have secured my.self 
in the way pointed out by Nature and Nature's (iod. I was sensible that 
to so helpless a cre;iture as a ])oor poet a wife and family were incum- 
brances, which a species of prudence would bid him shun ; but when the 
alternative was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on account of 
habitual follies, to give them no worse name, which no general example, 
no licentious wit, no soi)histical infidelity, would, to me, ever justify, I 
must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman t<j have made 
another choice, liesides, I had in "my Jean" a long and much-loved 



442 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



fellow-cre:vlurc\s hai)i)iness or niisLMy anionj^ my liands, ami who could 
triile wilh sucii a deposit? 

In liie affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably secure: I have 
gootl hopes of my farm ; but should they fail, 1 have an excise commission, 
which, on my simple petition, will at an\' time procure me bread. There 
is a certain stigma afilxed to the c h.u.icler of an excise officer, but 1 do 
not pretend to borrow honour from my profession; and thoui;h the salary 
be comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that the fn\st twenty-tive 
years of my life taught me to expect. 

Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may easily guess, my 
reverend and much-honoured friend, that my characteristical trade is not 
forgotten. I am, if possible, more than ever an enthusiast to the Muses. 
1 am determined to study man and nature, and in that view incessantly; 
and to try if the rijjening and corrections of years can enable me to pro- 
duce something worth i)rescrving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for detaining so long, 
that 1 have been tuning my lyie on the banks of Nith. Some large ))oetic 
plans that are lloating in my imagination, or partly put in execution, 1 shall 
impart to you when 1 have the pleasure of meeting with you; which, if you 
are then in Julinljurgh, I shall have about the beginning of Marc ii. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you were pleased to honour 
me, you must still allow me to challenge ; for with whatever unconcern 
I give up my transient connexion with the merely great, I cannot lose the 
patroni/.ing notice of the learned and good without the bitterest regret. 

R. W. 
No. CL.XXIII. 
TO MR. J.VMES 15UKNi:s. 

My 1)I:AK Sir, \l\.\.\'^\..\m^,qtli r,■hrl,ary,^^%^. 

VVhv 1 dill not write to you long ago is what, even on the rack, I 
could not answer. If you can in your mind form an idea of indolence, 
dissipation, hurry, cares, change of country, entering on untried scenes of 
life, all combineti, vou will save me the trouble of a blushing ai)ology. It 
coukl not be want of regard for a man for whom I had a high esteem 
before I knew him — an esteem which has much increased since I did 
know him ; and this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other 
indictment with which you shall please to charge me. 

After I parted from you, for many months my life was one continuer' 
scene of dissipation. Here at last I am become stationary, and have 
taken a farm and — a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a large river that runs by 
Dumfries, and falls into the Solway Frith. 1 have gotten a lease of my 
farm as long as I pleased ; but how it may turn out is just a guess, and it 
is yet to improve and cnc'ose, &c. ; however, 1 have good hopes of my 
bargain on the whole. 

My wife is my Jean, witii wliose story you are partly acquainted. I 
found I had a much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery among 
my hands, and 1 durst not tiille with so sacred a dei)osit. Indeed I have 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 443 



not any reason to repent tlie step I have taken, as I have attached myself 
to a very g(j()d wife, and liave shaken myself loose of every l)ad failing. 

I have ibund my hook a very prolitable business, and with the profits of 
it I have liegun life pretty decently. Should Fortune not favour me in 
farming, as I liave no great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided 
n-.yself in anotiier resource, wiiicli, however some folks may affect to 
despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. In the 
heyday of my fame, a gentleman, whose name at least I daresay you 
know, as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr. (iraham of Fintry, 
one of the Commissioners of Excise, offered me tiie commission of an 
excise officer. I thought it jMudent to accept the offer; and accordingly 
I took my instructions, and have my commission l)y me. Wiietiier I may 
ever do duty, or be a penny the l)etter for it, is wiiat 1 do not know ; but 1 
have the comfortable assurance tiial, come wlialever ill fate will, I can, on 
my simple i)etilion to tlic excise-board, get into employ. 

We have lost poor uncle Rol)ert this winter. He has long been very 
weak, and with a very little alteration on him, lie expired 3d Jan. 

His son William has been with me this winter, and goes in May to be 
an apprentice to a mason. His other son, the eldest, Joiin, comes to me, 
1 expect, in siunmer. They are boti) remarkably stout young fellows, and 
promise to do well. His only daughter, Fanny, has Ijeen with me ever 
since her father's death, and 1 propose keeping her in my fomily till sho 
be quite woman grown, and fit Iier for better service. She is one of the 
cleverest girls, and luis on'i of the most amiai)le dispositions, 1 have ever 
.seen. 

All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remem!)er me to 
all friends in the nortii. My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. 
and family. 

I am ever, my dear Cousin, 

Yours sincerely, 
R. B. 

Nu. fl.XXIV. 

TO MKS. DUN I, OP. 

[The two following Jetlcrs ri.-late to some ]ioenis by Mr. Mylne, who had 
recently died, wliicli liad been sent to liuriis for his judgment l)y the Rev. Mr. 
Carfrae, at the suggestion of Mrs. Dunloii. | 

Km. ISLAND, 4//; March, 1789. 

Hkkf. am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital. To 
a man who has a home, however humble (jr remote — if that home is like 
mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle of Edinburgii will soon 
be a i:)usiness of sickening disgust. 

" \ M\\ \M)\\\\) ;iii(l k''""/ of this world, I hate you I " 

When I mvist skulk into a corner, lest the rattling e(|uipage of some 
gaping blockiiead should mangle me in the mire, 1 am tempted to 
exclaim, "What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in 
some state of pre-existence, that he is ushered into tiiis state of being 



444 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



with the sceptre of rule and tlie key of riclies in his puny fist, and I am 
kiclced into the world tlie sport of folly, or the victim of pride?" I have 
read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain 1 think it was), wlio was so out 
of iumiour with the I'lolemean system o\ astronomy, that he said, had lie 
been of the Creator's council, he could have saved Him a great deal of 
labour and ahsurcHtv. I will not defend this i)lasphemous speech; but 
often, as 1 have glided with humble stealth througii the pomp of Princes 
Street, it lias suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present 
human figure, that a man, in proportion to his own c.mceil of his 
conseciuence in the world, ci)uld have i)ushed out the U)ngiludr ol liis 
common size, as a snail inisiies out iiis horns, or as wo draw out a 
perspective. Tiiis trilling alteration, not to mention ihe prothgious 
saving it would [)e in the tear and wear of the neck and limb sinews 
of many of his Majesty's liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head 
and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast ailvanlage, in 
enabling us at once to adjust tiie ceremonials in making a bow, or 
making way to a great man, and that too within a second of the 
precise spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the particular point 
of respectful distance, which the important creature itself requires; as a 
measuring-glance at its towering altitude wouKl determine the aif.iir like 
instinct. 

You are right. Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's poem, which he 
has addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault — it is, by f^if, too long. Besides, my success has en- 
couraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish poets, that the very term Scottish 
poetry borders on the burlestiue. Wiien I write to Mr. Carfrae, 1 shall 
advi.se him rather to try one of his deceasetl friend's English pieces, 
I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else 1 would have 
requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances, and would 
have olfered his friends my assistance in either selecting or correcting 
what would be proper for the press. What it is that occupies me so 
much, and perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall fill up 
a paragraph in some future letter. In the mean time allow me to close 
this epistle with a few lines done by a friend of mine ... I give 
you them, that, as you have seen the original, you may guess whether one or 
two alterations I have ventured to make in them be any real improvement. 

" Like the Hiir plant tli.it fii>m our touch withdraws, 
ShriiiU, MiiliUy fc:irful, even from iippl.iiisy; 
He all a motlior's fondest hope can dream, 
^nd all you are, my rharniini; . . . seem. 
Slraiyhl as the fi)x-i;l(ive, ere lier bells disclose, 
Mild as the niaiden-hhisliini; hawthorn blows. 
Fair as tlie fairest of each lovely Uind, 
Your form shall be the in>ai;e of your mind; 
Your manners shall so true yonr sonl express. 
That all shall loujj to know the worth they Kuess; 
Cou.neni.d hearts shall greet with kindred love. 
And even sick'ning envy must approve." * 



R. B. 



* These li'ies are supposed to have been written by Mrs. Dunlop herself. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 445 



No. CLXXV. 

TO THE Ri;V. 1'. CARKKAE. 

Rfv. SiK, '789- 

I do not recollect that I have ever felt a severer pang of shame, 
than on looking at the date of your obliging letter which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne's poem. 

I am much to blame: the honour Mr. Mylne has done me, greatly 
enhanced in its value by (he endearing, though melancholy, circumstance 
of its being the last production of his muse, deserved a better return. 

I have, as you hint, ihought of .sending a cojjy of the jjoem to some 
periodical publication ; Ijut, on second thoughts, I am afraid that in thu 
present case it would be an improj^er step. My success, periiaps a.s 
much accidental as merited, has brought an inundation of non.sense 
under the name of .Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish 
poems have so dunned, and daily do dun, the puljlic, that the very 
name is in danger of contempt. For these reasons, if jjublishing any of 
Mr. Myliie's ])oems in a m.agazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my opinion it 
certainly slujuid not be a Scottish poem. The profits of the labours of a 
man of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any jjrofits whatever; and 
Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest, which 
fate has denied himself to reap. IJut let the friends of Mr. Mylne\s fame 
(among whom 1 crave the honour of ranking myself) always keep in eye 
his re.sjjectability as a man and as a poet, a"d take no measure that, 
before the world knows anything about him, would risk his name and 
character being classed with the fools ^A the times. 

I have. Sir, some ex]K,rience of jniljlishing ; and the way in which I 
would i)roceed with Mr. Mylne's poems is this: — I will j^uljlish in two or 
three ICnglish and .Scottish public papers any one of his linglish poems 
which should, by private judges, be thought the most excellent, and 
mention it, at the same time, as one of the pnjducticjns of a Lothian 
farmer, of respectable character, lately decea.sed, whose poems his friends 
had, it in idea to publish, .soon, by subscription, for the .sake of his 
nurnerous family; — not in |>ity to that family, but in justice to what hi.s 
friends think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure, in the 
most effectual manner, to tho.se tender connexions, who.se right it is, the 
pecuniary reward of those merits. — R. li. 

No. CLXXVI. 

TO CLAKINDA. 
Madam, 'i^''- March, 1789. 

The letter you wrote me to Heron's carried its own answer ni "ts 
bosom ; you forbade me to write you, unless I was willing to plead guilty 
to a certain indictment that you were ])leased to bring against me. As I 
am convinced of my own innocence, and though con.scious of high im- 
prudence and egregious folly, can lay my hand on my breast and attest 



446 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



the rectitude of my heart, you will pardon me. Madam, if I do not carry 
my complaisance so far as hun\bly to acquiesce in tlie name of villain, 
merely out of compliment to your opinion, much as I esteem your 
judgment, and warmly as I regard your worth. 

Thave already told you, and 1 again aver it. that at the period of time 
alluded to I was not under the smallest moral tie to Mrs. Burns; nor did 
I, nor could I, then know all the powerful circumstances that omnipotent 
necessity was busv laying in wait for me. When you call over the scenes 
that have passed between us, you will survey the conduct of an honest 
man. struggling successfully with temptations the most powerful that 
ever beset humanity, and preserving untainted honour in situations where 
the austerest virtue would have forgiven a tall ; situations that, I will dare 
to say, not a single individual of all iiis kind, even with half his sensibility 
and "passion, could have encountered without ruin ; and I leave you to 
guess, iMadam, how such a man is likely to digest aa accusation of 
perfidious treachery. 

Was I to blame. Madam, in being the distracted victim of charms which, 
I affirm it, no man ever approached with impunity? Had I seen the least 
glimmering of hope that these charms could ever have been mine, or 
even had not iron necessity — but these are unavailing words. 

I would ha\e called on you when I was in town — indeed, I could not 
have resisted it — but that Mr. Ainslie told me that you were determined to 
avoid your windows while I was in town, lest even a glance of me should 
occur in the street. 

When 1 have regained your good opinion, perhaps I may venture to 
solicit your friendship ; but', be that as it may, the first of her sex I ever 
knew shall always be the object of my warmest good wishes. — R. B. 



No. CLXXVII. 

TO DR. MOORE, 
gjj^ Ellisland, Jsrt'/l/rtrrA, 1789. 

The gentleman who will deliver )ou this is a Mr. Nielson, a worthy 
clergyman \\\ my neighbourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of 
mine. As I have troubled him with this packet. I must turn him over to 
your goodness, to recompense him for it in a way in which he much needs 
your assistance, and where vou can efiectually serve him. Mr. Nielson is 
on his way for France, to wait on his Grace of Oueensberry. on some little 
business of a good deal of importance to him, and he wishes for your 
instructions respecting the most eligible mode of travelling, &:c., for him, 
when he has crossed the Channel. I should not have dared to take this 
liberty with you, but that I am told, by those who have the honour of 
your "personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a' 
letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it in your power to 
serve such a character gives you much pleasure. 

The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs. 
Oswald, of Auchencruive, You, probably, knew her personally, an honour 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 447 



of which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early years in her neighbour- 
hood, and among her servants and tenants. I know that she was 
detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the particular 
part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at 
Bailie Whigham's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were 
ushering in a night of snow and drift. My iiorse and I were both much 
fatigued with the labours of the day ; and just as my friend the Bailie 
and I were bidding defiance to the storm over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, and poor 1 am forced 
to brave all the horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my 
young favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles 
fartlier on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cum- 
nock, the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when 
I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at 
New Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and 
wrote the enclosed ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. Creech ; and I 
must own that at last he has been amicable and fair with me. — R. B. 



No. CLXXVIII. 

TO MR. HILL. 

[The "library scheme" here referred to is now-a-days a common institution in 
almost every village: but it is worth note tliat Burns a[)preciated the movement, 
and interested himself actively in it, at its first beginnings.] 

Ellisland, ind April, 1789. 

I WILL make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus, (God forgive me for 
murdering language !) tliat I have sat down to write you on this vile 
paper. 

It is economy. Sir; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence; so I beg you 
will sit down, and either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are going 
to borrow, apply to ... to compose, or rather to compound, something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one of my most 
esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was originally intended 
for the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a 
miserable vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand blessings ! — thou cook of fat 
beef and dainty greens! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland hose and 
comfortable surtouts ! — thou old housewife, darning thy decayed stockings 
with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me, hand me in thy 
clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and through those thickets, hitherto 
inaccessible and impervious to my anxious, weary feet : not those Par- 
nassian crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame 
are, breathless, clambering, hanging between heaven and hell, but those 



448 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

fluttering clifTs of Potosi, wliere the all-sufficient, all-povverfnl deity, Wealth, 
iiokis his immediate court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny expo- 
sure of plenty and the hot walls of profusion produce those blissful fruits 
of luxury, exotics in this world and natives of paradise ! Thou withered 
sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into thy refulgent, adored presence ! 
']"he power, splendid and jwtent as he now is, was once the puling 
nursling of thy tiiithtul care and tender arms! Call mc thy son, thy 
cousin, thy l<insman, or favourite, and adjure the god by the scenes of his 
infant years no longer to repulse me as a stranger or an alien, but to 
favour me with his peculiar countenance and protection! He daily 
bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserving and the worthless : 
assure him, that I bring ample documents of meritorious demerits! 
Pledge yourself for me, that for the glorious cause of Lucre I will tie 
anything, be anything- — but the horse-leech of private oppression, or the 
vulture of public robbery ! 

But to descend from heroics. 

1 want a Shakespeare; I want likewise an English dictionary — John- 
son's, I suppose, is best. In these and all my prose commissions the 
cheapest is always the best for me. There is a small debt of honour that 
I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and 
your well-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to take it, the first time 
you see him, ten shillings' worth of anything you have to sell, and place 
it to ni)' account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already begun, under 
the direction of Captain Riddel. There is another in emulation of it 
going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. Monteith, of Closeburn, 
which will be on a greater scale than ours. Capt. Riddel gave his infant 
society a great many of his old books, else I had written you on that 
subject; but one of these days I shall trouble you with a commission for 
" The Monkland Friendly Society : " a copy of "The Spectator," " Mirror," 
and " Lounger," " Man of Feeling," " Man of the World," " Cuthrie's 
Geograi)hical Grammar," with some religious pieces, will likely be our 
first order. 

When 1 grow richer, I will write to you on gilt post, to make amends 
for this sheet. At present every guinea has a five guinea errand with, 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest Friend, 

R. B. 



No. CLXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

Ei.i.Isi.AND, i,th April, 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, but I wish to send it to 
you: and if knowing and reading the.se give half the plea.surc to you that 
communicating them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or rather 
inscribe, to the Right Hon. Charles James Fox; but how long that fancy 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 449 



may hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I have just rough- 
sketched as follows : — 

SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white; 
Hjw genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
1 care not, not I; let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits, 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went (juite right; 
A sorry, poor niisbegot son of the Muses 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses, &c. 

(I'ur the rest see page 107.) 

On the 20th current I hope to have the honour of assuring you, in per- 
son, how sincerely I am. — R. B 



No. CLXXX. 
TO MRS. McMURDO. 

DRUMLANRIG. 

Madam, Elusland, 2(/ji/rtj/, 1789. 

I have finished the pieced wliicli had the happy fortune to be 
honoured with your approbation ; and never did little miss with more 
.sparkling pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial mamma, than 
I now send my poem to you and Mr. MciMurdo, if he is returned to 
Drumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned animals, 
what sensitive plants, poor poets are. How do we shrink into the 
embittered corner of self-abasement, when neglected or condeinned by 
those to whom we look up ! and how do we, in erect importance, add 
"another cubit to our stature on being noticed and applauded l)y those 
whom we honour and respect ! My late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can 
tell you. Madam, given me a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my 
fincied elevation I regard my poetic self with no small degree of com- 
placency. Surely, with all their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful 
creatures. I recollect your goodness to your humble guest, I see Mr. 
McMurdo adding to the politeness of the gentleman the kindness of a 
friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, with warm emotions and 
ardent wishes ! It may be it is not gratitude ; it may be a mixed sensa- 
tion. That strange, shifting, double animal man is so generally, at best, 

' " Bonnie Jean;" the heroine of which was the eldest daughter of Mrs. McMurdo, and sister 
to Phillis: their charms give lustre to some of the Poet's happiest lyrics. 



45 O THE LE T TERS or B URNS. 



but a negative, often a worthless, creature, that we cannot see real good- 
ness antl native worth without reeling the bosom glow with sympathetic 
approbation. 

With every sentiment ol grateful respect, 

1 have the honour to be, Madam, 
Your obliged and grateful humble Servant, 

K. B. 

No. CLXXXI. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

My dear Sir, Klusi-anii, 4//, Mny, 1789. 

Your duty-free favour of the 26th A]>ril I received two days ago. 
I will not say I received it with pleasure; that is the cold compliment of 
ceremony : 1 perused it, Sir, with delicious satisfi\clion ; — in short, it 
is such a letter, that not you. nor your friend, but the legislature, by 
express proviso in their postage laws, should frank. A letter intormed 
with the .soul of friendship is such an honour to human nature, that they 
should order it free ingress and egress to and from their bags and mails, 
as an encouragement and mark of distinction to supereminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem, which I think will be 
.something to yovu' taste. One morning lately, as I was out pretty early 
in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, 1 heard the burst of a shot from 
a neiglibouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came 
cri|ipling l^y me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman fellow 
who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them li.ive young 
ones. Indeed there is something in that business of destroying for our 
sport individuals in the animal creation that do not injure us materially 
which I could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 

Inhum.in man ! curse on thy h.Trb'ious art, 

Anil blasted be thy mnrdcr-.iiming eye! 

May never pily sooihc thee with a sigh, 
Nor ever pleasure ghid thy cruel licart I — &c. {Pnge 96.) 

Let mo know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it would 
not be an improvement to keep out the last stanza but one altogether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious jirodurtion of the Author of man. You, he, 
and tile noble Colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart." 

1 liave a good mind to make verses on you all to the tune of " Three guid 
fellows ayont the glenn." — R. B. 



No. CI.XXXII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 
My dear Friend, MAticin.iNK, 2i.r/.i/rtv, 1789. 

I was in the country by accident, and hearing of your sate arrival, 
I could not resist the temptation of wishing you joy on your return, 



THE LET TERS OE B URNS. 4 5 1 

wishing you would write to me before you sail again, wishing you would 
always set me down as your Ijosom friend, wishing you lonj' life and 
prosjK-rity, and that every gf)od thing may attend you, wishing Mrs. 
JJrown and your little ones as free of the evils of this world as is 
consistent with humanity, wishing you and she were to make two at 
the ensuing lying-in with which Mrs. IJ. threatens very soon to favour 
me, wishing I had longer time to write to you at present, and, finally, 
wishing that if there is to ije another state of existence, Mr. 15., Mrs. li., 
our little ones, and both famihes, and you and 1, in some snug retreat, 
may make a jovial |)arty to all eternity! 

My direction is at J-llisiand, near Dumfries. 

Yours, R. B. 



No. CI.XXXIII. 
TO MR. JA.MKS HAMILTON. 
Dear Sir, Elusi.and, 26M /V/t;/, 1789. 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of sympathy with your 
misfortunes; but it is a tender string, and I know not. how to toucn it. 
It is ea.sy to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments on the subjects that 
would give great satisfaction to — a breast quite at ea.se; but as one 
observes who was very .seldom mistaken in the theory of life, "The 
heart knoweth its own .sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not there- 
with." 

Among some distressful emergencies that I have experienced in life, I 
ever laid this down as my foundatit)n of comfort — TIkU he who has lived 
the life of an honest man has by no means lived in vain ! 
With every wish for your welfare and future success, 

1 am, my dear .Sir, 

Sincerely yours, 

R. B. 

No. CLXXXIV. 
TO WILLIAM CUr.rX'M, ESQ. 

Sir, Ri.usi.ANn, 30M May, 1789. 

1 had intended to have troubled you with a long letter, but at 
]>rescnt the delightful sensations of an oinni|;otent toothache .so engross 
all my inner man, as to jjut it out of my power even to writ'.; nonsense 
However, as in duty bound, I approach my bookseller with an fjfferiiig in 
my hand — a few jKietif al clinches and a song : — to expec t any other kind 
of offering from the rhyming tribe would be to know Ihem much less 
than you do. I do not pretend that there is much irn-rit in the.se mor- 
ceaux; but 1 have two reasons U)r senriing them : primo, they are mostly 
ill-natured, so are in unison with my present feelings, while fifty troojjs of 
infernal spirits are driving jjost from ear to ear along my jaw-bones; and 



452 THE LE T 7ERS OF B URNS. 



secondly, they are so short, that you cannot leave off in the middle, and so 
hurt my pride in the idea that you found any work of mine too heavy to 
get through. 

1 have a request to beg of you, and I not only beg of you, but conjure 
you. by all your wishes and by all your hopes that tlie Muse will spare 
the satiric wink in the moment of vour foibles ; that she will warble the 
song of rapture round your h)mcncal couch ; and that she will shed on 
your turf the honest tear of elegiac gratitude ! Cirant my request as 
speedily as possible : send me by the very tirst fly or coach tor this place 
three copies of the last edition of my poems, which place to my account. 

Now may the good things of prose, and the good things of verse, come 
among thy hands, until they be filled with the good things of this life, 
prayeth R. B. 



No. CLXXXV. 

TO I^IR. JOHN McAULAY. 

TOWN CLERK OF DUMBARTON. 

Dear Sir, Elusland, 4^;/* ^kw^, 1789. 

Though I am not without my fears respecting my fate at that 
grand, universal inquest of right and wrong commonly called The Last 
Day, yet I trust there is one sin which that arch-vagabond Satan, who I 
understand is to be king's evidence, cannot throw in my tcetli — I mean 
ingratitude. There is a certain pretty large quantum of kindness for 
which 1 remain, and from inability 1 fear must still remain, your debtor; 
but though unable to repay the debt, 1 assure you, Sir, I shall ever warmly 
remember the obligation. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear by 
my old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's lan- 
guage. " Hale, and weel, and living; " and that your charming family are 
well, and promising to be an amiable and respectabb addition to the 
company of performers whom the Great Manager of the Drama of Man 
is bringing into action for the .succeeding age. 

Witii respect to my welfare, a subject in which you once warmly and 
effectively interested yourself, I am here in my old way, holding my plough, 
marking the growth of my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at times 
sauntering by the delightful windings of the Nith, on the margin of which 
I have built my hunible domicile; praying for seasonable weather, or 
holding an intrigue with the Muses — the only gyi^sies with whom 1 have 
now any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy state of matrimony, 
I trust my face is turned completely Zionward : and as it is a nile with all 
honest fellows to repeat no grievances, 1 hope that tlie litde poetic licences 
ot lormer days will of course fall under the oblivious influence ot some 
good-natured statute of celestial prescription. In my family devotion, 
which, like a good presbyterian, I occasionally give to my household folks, 
1 am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the errors of my youth," &c., 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 45 ; 



and that other, " Lo, children are God's heritage," &c., in which last Mrs- 
Burns, who, by the by, has a glorious " wood-note wild " at either old song 
or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Handel's " Messiah." — R. B. 

No. CLXXXVI. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

My dear F"rIEXD, Ellisland, Wi June, 1789. 

I am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look at the date of your 
last. It is not that I forget the friend of my heart and tne companion ot 
my peregrinations ; but I have been condemned to drudgery beyond 
sufferance, though not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have had a 
collection of poems ijy a lady put into my hands to prepare them for the 
press ; wliich iiorrid task, with sowing corn with my own iiand, a parcel of 
masons, wrights, plasterers, &c., to attend to, roaming on business through 
Ayrshire — all this was against me, and the very first dreadful article was 
of itself too much for me. 

13th. — I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil since the 
8th. Life, my dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know by experience 
that a man's individual self is a good deal, but, believe me, a wife and 
family of children, whenever you have the honour to be a husband and a 
father, will show you that your present and most anxious hours of solitude 
are spent on trifles. 1 he welfare of those who are very dear to us, whose 
only support, hope, and stay we are — this, to a generous mind, is another 
sort of more important object of care than any concerns whatever which 
centre merely in the individual. On the other hand, let no young, un- 
married, rakehelly dog among you make a song of his pretended liberty 
and freedom from care. If the relations we stand in to king, country, 
kindred, and friends, be anything but the visionary fancies of dreaming 
metaphysicians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity, 
and justice, be aught out empty sounds ; then the man who may be .said 
to live only for others, for the beloved, honourable female, whose tender, 
faithful embrace endears life, and for the helpless little innocents who are 
to be the men and women, the worshipjjers of his God, the subjects of 
his king, and the support, nay, the very vital existence, of liis country, in 
the ensuing age; — compare such a man with any fellow whatever, who, 
whether he bustle and push in business among labourers, clerks, statesmen ; 
or whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing, in taverns — a fellow over 
whose grave no one will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb- 
tie of what is called good fellowship — who has no view nor aim but what 
terminates in himself: if there be any grovelling earthborn wretch of our 
species, a renegado to common sense, who would fain believe that the 
noble creature man is no better than a sort of fungus, generated out of 
nothing, nobody knows how, and soon dissipating in nothing, nobody 
knows wliere ; such a stupid beast, such a crawling reptile, miglit balance 
the foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but no one else would have the 
Ipatieuce. 



454 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this lonpj silence. To make you amends 
1 shall siMul you soon, and, more encouraging still, without any postage 
one or two rh)nies of my later manufacture. — R. li. 



No. CLXXXVII. 

TO MR. [PETER STUART]. 

[Mr. Robert Cluiinhcrs has discin'oreil tliat tliis lodor was aililrossoil to Mr. 
Pclor Stuart, editor of the Star, aiul afterwards coimeclcd willi die Morning Post 
jnd Chroniili-.\ 

My df.ak Sir, >7Sg. 

The hurry of a farmer in this jxirticular season and the imU^lence 
ofa poet at all limes anil seasons will, I hope, plead my excuse tor neg- 
lecting so long to answer your obliging letter of the 5th of August. . . , 

When 1 receiveil your letter 1 was transcribing for . . . my letter to 
the magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their permission 
to phtce a tombstone over poor Fergusson, antl their edict in con- 
sequence of my petition ; but now I shall send them to ... . Poor 
Fergusson! If there be a life beyond the grave, which I trust there 
is ; and if there be a good Ciotl presiding over all nature, which 1 am 
sure there is; thou art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, 
where worth of the heart alone is ilisllnction in the man ; where riches, 
deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their native 
sordid matter; where titles and honours are the disregarded reveries 
of an idle dream; and where that heavy virtue, which is the negative 
consei|uence of steady dullness, and those thoughlless, though often de- 
structive, follies which are the unavoidable aberrations i)f frail human 
nature, will be thrown into eciual oblivion, as if thev had never been! 

Adieu, my ilear Sir! So soon as your present views and schemes arc 
concentred in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you, as your welfare 
and happiness is by no means a subject inditVerent to Yours, 

R B. 

No. CLXXXVIII. 

TO MISS WILLIAMS. 

[Miss Helen Maria Williams, author of " Some Verses on the Slave Trade, and 
other Poems," was introduced to Burns by Dr. Moore.] 

Madam, Klusland, 1789. 

Of the many problems in tlie nature of that woiulerful cieature 
man, this is one of the most extr.iordinary, that he shall go on from da) 
to day, trom week to week, from uhmUIi to month, or perh.ips tVom year to 
year, snifering a hundred times more in an hour from the impotent 
consciousness of neglecting what he ought to ilo, than the very doing of it 
would cost iiim. I am deeply indebted! to you, first for tiie inost elegant 



THE LJiTTEKS OF BURNS. 455 

poetic compliment, then for a polite, obliging letter, and lastly, for your 
excellent poem on the Slave Trade ; and yet, wretch that I am ! though 
the ilohts were debts of honour, and tlie creditor a lady, I have put off 
and put off evcMi the acknowledgment of the oljligalion, until you must 
indeed be the very angel I lake you for, if you can forgive mc. 

Your poem I have read with liie higiiest pleasure. 1 have a way 
whenever I read a book — I mean a book in our own trade, Madam, a 
poetic one — and when it is my own property, that I take a jjencil and 
mark at the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd ]ja]jer, little 
criticisms of ai>j)robation or disapprobation as 1 peruse along. I will 
make no apology for presenting you with a few unconnected tlioughts 
that occurred to me in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want to 
show you that I have honesty enough to tell you what I lake to be 
truths, even when they are not quite on the side of ajiprobation ; and 
I do it in the firm faith tliat you have equal greatness (jI niiad t(j hear 
them witJi pleasure. 

I know very little of scientilic criticism ; so all I can pretend to do 
in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages 
strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression 
seems to be perplexed or faulty. 

The poem opens finely, 'i'here are none of these idle prefatory lines 
which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th 
and loth ia particular, 

" Wlicrc ocean's unseen bound 
Ix:aveg a drear world of waters round," 

are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine; and 
indeed, beautiful as the jjoem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly 
above it. Fromver.se 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy on IJritain. 
Verse 36th, " That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expressive. 
Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest: " to dare to feeP' 
is an idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valour and 
mercy, from the 46th verse to tlie 50th, is admirajjle. 

Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused 
in the apostrojihe to Mr. I'itt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses 
57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion seems ungrammatical : — 

" Powers 

With no gradations mark'd their flij^ht, 
IJut rose at once to glory's height." 

" Ris'n " shffuld be the word instead of " rose." Try it in prose. Powers, 

their fiiglit marked by no gradations, but [the same jKjwers] risen at 
once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53d, " For this" is evidently 
meant to lead on the .sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 6ist, and 62d ; but 
let us try how the thread of connexion runs : — 

" For this 

The deeds of mercy, that embrace 
A distant sphere, an alien race, 
Shall virtue's lips record, and claim 
The fairest honours of thy name." 



45^ 



TJJE LETTERS OF BUKNS. 



I beij ivirdon if 1 misapjuThnifl llic m.itlcr, Init tliis ri|>|)c.iis to rue tlic 
(inlv impi'ilitl pass.i^^c in the poiiu. I'lu- (oiiipai i mmi »iI llic .miii1i>-, un 
is tnic. 

'I'lu' cuniprmu'iil 111 the I )nlvc ol Kii hinoiul is, I hopr, ;is just as it is 
Ccrlaiiil) rlr^aiit. Tlic llu)U:;lil 

" Vuiiu- 

S.-uil'. h.MM lirr iiiisulll<-.l -.oui. f 

■I'lii- yynv. ..I llhHi,;hl llu i. |.ni.-.l forif." 

is OMTi-(!ii»<;Iy luMiitiliil. Tlic idea, Imm V(is(- tSist lo tlio S^^lli, tlial tlic 
" hii'st (Ifiii'c" is like llic luaius ol moiuini; iisiininn in tlii" j;i()i ions day 
(>!" lilu'ity, oU!;ht not In pass iiiiinitid'd or uiiapplaiidcd. l''luiu verse .S5IM 
l<» viTsc loSlli is an aninialcd (oiiliasi lu'twicn ll>e uiiiecliiij; s( ilishm ss 
ol llic oppressor, 011 llie one iiaiid, and tlie misery of tlie rapli\f, on \\w. 
olluT. Veise oStli mii;i\l perhaps \w amended tiuis: "Nor e\'er quit 
her narrow maze." Wi- are said to /'</,v.v a Ixmnd, lull we (///// a ma/e. 
Vcrsu lootli is e.\(iiiisilel\ luaiuilul: - 

" I'll. V, uliM.ii w.isu-il lilcssiniis liic." 

Verso llolli is, I doiilil, a ( lashiii!; of iueta|iiiors ; " lo load a span" is, I 
;un alVaid. an nnw.n lanlalile espressio'i. In verse ll.pli, "( asl I Ke 
universe in shade" i. a hue idea. I'lom ihe iit,lh verse lo liie i|.'d 
is a sliil\in,i;(leseriplion ol the wroui^sol llie poor .Ah ic .111. \ Cise i.'olh, 
" 'IMie load of iinreiuilleil p.iin," is .1 rem.n k.dile, stioui; evpies.sion. The 
iulllress lo ihe .uhoi.iles lor alioiishin:' ihe ■.l.i\e- li.ide, liom \crse I | id 
to V(M'se _'o.Slh, is animated with die line hie ol genius. The pictuii; 
ol' Opjiiessioii, 

•• Wlul,- ..I..' I.nl.., Iwi iiiiploir. . h.im. 
Aihl ,.,l>ul..u-, llu- i.ih .■ ul |..,iii; 
\\'<iv;lis ;i);(iiiv in simliil s< .ilcs. 
And murks il'clculh or life picvjiils," — 
is iiohly e.MHUted. 

What a teiukT idea is in veise iSolti! Indeed, lh.it whole" desi 1 iplioii 
of honu- ni.iy vie vvilh 'I'iionison's desei iplimi ol home, somewheie in Ihe 
he^iiniiiiii; of Iiis " /\iiliinin.'" I >.\^'' iml nniemlui lo h.i\e sei'ii .1 slion^er 
CXpres.sioii ul iniseiy tli.in is eonlained in liiese \eisis: -~ 

" ('oli,li-mnr,l, ...-vrir fKlifMl.-, I., live 
Wh.-M .ill 1-, ll.-,l Ih.il Ifir lui K.n.-." 

The tomp.irisoii ul onr dislani io\slo disl.iiil olijeels is e(|ii.dl)' oiii^iii.il 
and .sliikinv,. 

The (li.ii.uier .ind m.iiiners ol the dealer in the iiilein.il ti.illie is a 
well done, ihoiinh a horrid, jiii lure. I am not sine how lar iiiliodneinjtj 
llu: sailor w.is rinlil ; for tlioiij^li the sailor's eonimon eliar.irli'rislif i.s 
gt'iiLTosily, \et in this e.ise he is eeil.iinU nol onl\' an iiiu oliei rned 
witness, hut, in some (leL;iee, ,in eilii lent .i;M'nl in the luisiness. \'el^e 
224tli is a nervous . . . expressive — •' The he.iil emn nl .ive .nn'iii^.h 
breaks." The deseriplion ol llie ca[)tive wieleh when he ,iiii\(s in ihe 
West Indies is carried on with equal spiiil. llic ihou^hl lli,iL the 



Till'. I l-.T'ri'.NS Ol' lll/A'NS. 457 



oppressor's sorrow on srciii;^ tlie slave pine is lii<e llie Initf.licr's regret 
when his destincfl hinil) dies ;i ii:iUir;il (lc;itli is excccdinj^iy fun;. 

1 ;im got so nun h Into tlic ciiiil of ( lilicisni, that 1 begin to 1)'; afraid 
lest I have nothing except tlie cant of it; and instead of ehicidaling my 
antlior, am only henigiiting mysell. Vm this reason, I will not pretend to 
go tlnongh the whole poem. Some few remaining heantihil lines, how- 
ever, I cannot pass over. V(;rse 2.Sotii is the sirongest desciiption of 
seliishness I ever saw. The comparison in venses 285111 and 2861I1 is new 
anfl line; anil the line, " Yom- arms to penury yon lend," is excellent. 

In ver.se 3 1 -/111, "like" slioiild certainly be "as" or "so;" for instance — 

"Mis sw.iy tlic Ir.irilcTicil Ixisimi I«;ic1h 
'I'll iriirlly's r(;iiioisi:l';ss dct'ls; 
As (cr ho) llm liliri; linliliiiiii;, wIh-m it i.jiriiiiis 
Willi fury on its liviil wiiiKs, 
J).irlHiiii tliu ii<):il will) r;i|)i'l force, 
Nor liccdii that ruin markn its courKC." 

If you insert the word " like" wiierc I have jilnced "as," yon must alter 
"darts" to "darting," and "heeds" to " heeding," in order to make it 
gr.imm.ir. A t(mip(;st is a favourite subject with tlie poets, but I do not 
rememl)er anytiiing even in I'homson's "WinliM" superior to your verses 
from the 347th to the 351SI. Indeed the last simile, i)eginning willi 
" Fancy may dress, " etc., and ending with the 3S01I1 verse, is, in my 
opinion, the most beautiful passage in tiie poem; it would do honour to 
the greatest nanx-.s that (.-ver gr.u cmI our profession. 

I will not beg your pardon, Madam, for Ihe.e sirii linns, as my ( on- 
science t(dls uk;, that for once; in my lile I iiave acted up to the (hilies ul u 
Chrisli.ui, in doing as I would be done by. — R. li. 



No. CIA'.VXIX. 

'[() MRS. DUNI.OI'. 
Dkak Madam, Ki.i.rsr.AND, aif/ ywwi", 178'). 

Will you taker tlie effusions, the misirrable effusions, of low s])irits, 
just as they (iow horn their bitter sj>ring? I know not of any particular 
caus(! for this worst of all my foes beselliiig me; but for some lime my 
soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmos|jhere of evil imaginations 
and ;;iooniy presages. 

nhiii/ny l''.iipiii>ii;. 

I have just heard Mr. Kirki)ntrirk ])reach a sermon. He is a man 
famous for his benevohMue, ai.d I revere him ; but from sui h ifleas of my 
Creator, goofi Lord, deliver me! Religion, my honouic-d fiieiul, is surely 
a sim])le business, as it equally concerns the ignor.int and the learned, the 
poor and the rich. That there is an incom])rehensible (Jre.it lieing. to 
whom I owi; my existence; and that He must be intimately a((|uainl(!d with 
the o|)eralions and ])rogress of the intern.d ma( hinery, and consefjuent 
outward deportment, of this creature which He has made; these are, I 



458 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

think, self-evident propositions. That tlicre is a real and eternal distinc- 
tion between virtue and vice, and, consequently, that 1 am an accountable 
creature; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as 
from the evident imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in the administration 
of afTairs, both in tlie natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive 
scene of existence beyond the grave ; must, I think, be allowed by every 
one who will give himself a moment's reileclion. I will go farther, and 
affirm, that from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of His doctrine and 
precepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of many 
preceding ages, though, to appearance. He Himself was the obscurest and 
most illiterate of our species — therefore Jesus Christ was from God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness, of others, this 
is my criterion of goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, or any 
individual in it, this is mv measure of iniciuity. 

What think you. Madam, of my creed? 1 trust that I have said nothing 
that will lessen me in the eye of one whose good opinion I value almost 
next to the approbation of my own mind. — R. B. 

No. CXC. 

TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 
My Lady, 

The honour you have done your poor poet, in writing him so very 
obliging a letter, and the pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given 
him, came very seasonably to his aid amid the cheerless jloom and sinking 
despondency of diseased nerves and December weather. As to forgetting 
the family of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with what sincerity I could 
use those old verses, which please me more in their rude simplicity than 
the most elegant lines I ever saw : — 

" If thee, Jerusalem, I forKct, 

Skill part from my right haiiJ. 

My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, 

If I do thcc forget, 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set." 

When I am tempted to do anything improper. I dare not, because I 
look on myself as accountable to your ladyship and fainily. Now and 
then, when I have the honour to be called to the tables of the great, if I 
happen to meet with any mortification from the stately stupidity of self- 
sufficient squires or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, I get above 
the creatures by calling to remembrance that I am patronised by the 
noble house of Glencairn ; and at gala-times, such as New-year's day, a 
christening, or the Kirn-night, when my punch-bowl .is brought from its 
dusty corner and filled up in honour of the occasion, I begin with, "The 
Countess of Glencairn ! " My good woman, with the enthusiasm of a 
grateful heart next cries, " My Lord ! " and so the toast goes on until I 
end with "Lady Harriet's little angel!" whose epithalamium I have 
pledged myself to write. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 459 

Wlien I received your ladyship's letter, I was just in the act of tran- 
scribing for you some verses 1 have lately composed ; and meant to have 
sent lliem my tirst leisure hour, and acquainted you with my late change 
of life. I mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my tarm. Those 
fears were indeed too true : it is a bargain that would have ruined me but 
for the lucky circumstance of my having an excise commission. 

People may talk as they please of the ignon^iny of the excise; 50/. a 
year will support my wife and children, and keep me intlependent of the 
world ; and 1 would much rather have it said that my profession borrowed 
credit from me, than that I borrowed credit from my profession. Another 
advantage I h.ive in this business is the knowledge it gives me ot the 
various shades of human character, consequently assisting me vastly in 
my poetic |)ursuils. 1 had the most ardent enlluisiasm for the Muses 
wiien nobody knew me but myself, and that ardour is by no means cooled 
now that my Lord tilencairn's goodness has introduced me to all the 
world. Not that I am in haste for the press. 1 have no idea of publish- 
ing, else I certainly had consulted my noble, generous i)atron ; but after 
acting the part of an honest man, and sui)porting my family, my whole 
wishes and views are directed to poetic pursuits. 1 am aware, that though 
I were to give performances to the world su[K>rior to my former works, 
still, if they were the sam- kind with those, the comparative reception 
they would meet with would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts on 
the drama. I do not m -an the stately buskin of the tragic IVIuse. . . . 

Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh theatre would be more 
amused with affectation, fo'.iy, and whim of true Scottish growth, than 
manners which by far Xhe greatest part of the audience can only know at 
second-hand ? 

I have the honour to be, ^^ 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 

and grateful humble Servant, 
R. B. 
i 

No. CXCI. 

i -' TO MR JOHN LOGAN 

[of knocksminnoch, ci.kn ArroN, avrshirk]. 

Dear Sir EllislaND, near Dumfries, -jth Aug., 1789. 

I intended to have written you long ere now, and, as I told you, I 
had gotten three stanzas and a half on my way in a poetic epistle to yon; 
but that old enemy of all i^ood works, the devil, threw me into a prosaic 
mire, and for the soul of me 1 cannot got out of it. I dare not write you 
a long letter, as I am going to intrude on vour time with a long ballad. I 
have, as you will shortly see, finished " The Kirk's Alarm " ; but now that 
it is done, and that 1 have laughed once or twice at the conceits in some 
of the stanzas, I am detennined not to let it get into the public: so I send 
you this copy, the first that 1 have sent to Ayrshire, except some few of 
the stanzas, which 1 wrote off in embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the 



460 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

express provision and request that you will only read it to a few of us, anH 
do not on any account give, or permit to be taken, any copy of the ballad. 
If I could be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, though it should 
be at a much greater expense than irritating a few bigoted ])riests ; but I 
am afraid serving him in his present cnibarras is a task too hard for mc. 
I ha\e enemies enow, God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the 
number. Still, as I think there is some merit in two or three of the 
thoughts, I send it to you as a small but sincere testimony how much, 
and with what respectful esteem, 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 
R. B. 



No. CXCII. 

TO MRS. DUNI.OP. 

Dkar Madam, Eluslanu, 6/// ^f'//., 1789. 

I have mentioned in my last my appointment to the E.xcise and the 
birth of little Frank ; who, by the by', I trust will be no discredit to the 
honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly countenance, and a 
figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older, and like- 
wise an excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe only 
not quite so loud as the liorn that his immortal namesake blew as a signal 
to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. 

1 iiad some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your 
poetessfc Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious but modest composition. I 
should liave wiitten her as she recpiested, but for the hurry of this new 
business. I have heard of her and her compositions in this country; and 
I am hai)py to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, 
I know not well how to write to her: J should sit down to a sheet of paper 
that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn letter-writing; 
and, except when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which happens 
extremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (1 know not her name) that presides 
over ejiistolary writing, I sit down, when necessitated to write, as 1 would 
sit down to beat hemp. 

Some ]iarts of your letter of the 20th August struck me with the most 
melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. 

Would I couUl write )ou a letter of comfort ! I would sit down to it witli 
as nnich j^leasure as I would to write an epic poem of my own comiwsi- 
tion that should equal the "Iliad." Religion, my dear friend, is the true 
comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; a proposition 
so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, every nation and 
people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least near four thousand 
years, have in some mode or other firmly believed it. In vain would we 
reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring 
pitch ; but, when I reflected that I was opposing the most ardent wishes 



THE LETTERS Of BURNS. 461 



and the most darling ho])c.s of good men, and flying in the face of all 
human belief, in .ill ages, I was shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether 1 have ever sent you the following lines, or if you 
have ever seen them ; but it is one of my favorite quotations, which I 
keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the 
book of Job, 

" Ag:iiiist the c'ay of batilc and of war" — 

spoken of religion : 

" 'Tis this, my friend, thnt streaks niir morning bright: 
'Tis this that Kilds the horror of our night: 
Wnen wealth forsakes us, and when friends arc few, 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue, 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart; 
Within the breast bids purest rajjinres rise. 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I have been busy with " Zeluco." The Doctor is so obliging as to 
request my ojjinion of it: and I have been revolving in my mind some 
kind of criticisms on novel-writing; but it is a depth beyond my research. 
I shall however digest my thoughts on the subject as well as 1 can. 
" Zeluco" is a most sterling performance. 

Farewell ! // Dieu, le bon Dicu,je vous coiiunendel — R. B. 



No. CXCIII. 
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 



[The "important day" was that on which the contest with the famous Danish 
whislle was to take place at (laptaiti Rifl'lel's — the conlesi, who of the company 
could drink dccpcsl and iuiigcst without losinj^ the jxjwer of blowing the wl)istle.] 

Sir, Em.island, \()th Oct., 1789. 

Big with the idea of this important day at Friars Carse, I have 
watched the elements and skies in the full jjcrsuasion that they would 
announce it to the astonished world by some phenoinena of terrific por 
tent. Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait with anxious horror 
for the appearance of some comet firing half the sky, or aerial armies of 
sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart the startled heavens, rapid as 
the ragged lightning, and horrid as tho.se convulsions of nature that bury 
nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly : they did 
not even usher in this morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, 
symbolical of the three potent heroes and the mighty claret-shed of the 
day. For me, as Thomson in his "Winter" says 01 the storm, I shall 
" Hear astonished, and astonished sing " 

The whistle and the man : I sing 
The man thai won the whistle, &c. 



462 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

Here nrc we met, tlircc merry boys; 

Three merry boys 1 trow are \vc; 
And mony a niglit we've merry been, 

And mony mac we hope to be. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold coward loini is he: 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king aniang ns three. 

To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to tlie humble vale of 
prose — 1 have some misgivings that I take too much upon me, when I 
request you to get your guest, Sir Robert Lowrie, to frank the two enclosed 
coxers for me ; the one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
land, Bart., at Kilmarnock; the other to Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing- 
Master, Edinburgh. The first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as 
being a brother Ixironet, and likewise a keen Foxite ; the other is one of 
the worthiest men in the world, and a man of real genius ; so, allow me 
to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. I want them franked for to- 
morrow, as I cannot get them to the post to-night. I shall send a servant 
again for them in the evening. Wishing that your head may be crowned 
with laurels to-night, and free from aches to-morrow, 
I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your deeply indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CXCIV. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

My dear Friend, Elusland, u/AWcwi^/'*', 1789. 

1 had written you long ere now, could I have guessed where to 
find you ; for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the 
precious days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. 
Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but 
deliver you from evil ! 

I do not know if 1 have informed you that I am now np]iointed to an 
excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this I 
was extremelv lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as they 
call their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all intents 
and puriKises an officer of excise, there to flourish and bring forth fruits — 
worthy of repentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or, still more opprobrious, ganger, 
will sound in your ears. I too have seen the day, when my auditory 
nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject ; but a wife and 
ciiildren are things which have a wonderful power in blunting .these kind 
of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision for widows and 
ori)hans, you will allow is no bad settlement for a ^od. For the ignominy 
of the profession, I have the encouragement whicli I once heard a recruit- 
ing Serjeant give to a numerous, if not a respectable, audience, in the 
streets of Kilmarnock : " Gentlemen, for your further and better encourage- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 463 

ment, I can assure you that our regiment is the most blackguard corps 
under the crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has the surest 
chance for preferment." 

You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and disagree- 
able circumstances in my business ; but I am tired with and disgusted at 
the language of complaint against the evils of life. Human existence in 
the most favourable situations does not abound with pleasures, and has its 
inconveniences and ills : capricious, foolish man mistakes these inconven- 
iences and ills, as if they were the peculiar property of his particular 
situation; and hence that eternal fickleness, that love of change, which 
has ruined, and daily does ruin, many a fine fellov/, as well as many 
a blockhead, and is, almost without exception, a constant source 0/ 
disappointment and misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — not so much in business, as in 
life. Are you pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, and tolerably 
at ease in your internal reflections? 'Tis much to be a great character as 
a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to be a great character as a man. 
That you may be both the one and the other is the earnest wish, and that 
you will be both is the firm persuasion, of, 

My dear Sir, &c., 

R. B. 



No. CXCV. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Ellisland, i,th November, 1789. 

I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear friend, that though I got both 
your letters, I have not been able to command an hour to answer them as 
1 wished ; and even now you are to look on this as merely confess- 
ing debt, and craving days. Few things could have given me so much 
pleasure as the news that you were once more safe and sound on terra 
firma, and happy in that place where happiness is alone to be found, in 
the" fireside ciicle. May the benevolent Director of all things peculiarly 
bless you in all those endearing connexions consequent on the tender and 
venerable names of husband and father ! I have indeed been extremely lucky 
in getting an additional income of ^50 a year, while, at the same time, the 
appointment will not cost me above ^10 or ^12 per annum of expenses 
more tlian I must have inevitably incurred. The worst circumstance is, 
th\t the excise division which I have got is so extensive, no less than ten 
p Irishes to ride over; and it abounds besides with so much business, that 
I c ui scarcely ste:il a si)are moment. However, labour endears rest, and 
both together are absolutely necessary for the proper enjoyment of human 
exist'ince. I cannot meet you anywhere. No less than an order from the 
Board of Excise, at Edinburgh, is necessary before I can have so much 
time as to meet you in Ayrshire. But do you come and see me. We 
must have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it out witii half the night, 
before you go again to sea. You are the earliest friend I now have on 



4^4 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



eartli, my bnUhcrs excepted; and is not that an endearing circumstance? 
W'lien vou and I first met, we were at tlie green period of Iniman lite. 
The twig would easily take a bent, hut would as easily return to its Cornier 
state. You and I not only took a mutual hent, but by the melancholy, 
though strong, influence of" being both of" the family of the unfortunate, we 
were entwineil witii one another in our growth towards advanced age: and 
blasted be the sacrilegious hand that shall attempt to undo the union! 
You and 1 must have one bumiJer to my favourite toast, " May the com- 
panions of our youth be the friends of our old age ! "' Come ami see me 
one year; I shall see you at Port (ilasgow the next: and if we-Mu ct)ntrive 
to have a gossiping between our two bedfellows, it will be so much addi- 
tional pleasure. Airs. Burns joins me in kind compliments to you and 
Mrs. brown. Adieu! 

1 am ever, mv dear Sir, vours, 

' R. B. 



No. CXCVI. 
TO R. CR/VHAM, ESQ., 

OK KINTKV. 
gjt^ g//; Pfce»il'fr. 1789. 

I have a good while had a wish to trouble you with a letter, and 
had certainly done it long ere now, but for a humiliating something that 
throws colli water on the resolution, as if one should say, " \o\\ have found 
Mr. Graham a very powerful and kinil fViend indeeil, and that interest he 
is so kindly taking in vour concerns, you ought by everything in your 
power to keep alive and cherish." Now. though since Ciod has thought 
liroper to make one powerful and another helpless, the connexion of 
obliger and obliged is all fair; and though my being umler your patron- 
age is to me highly honourable, yet. Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that 
as a poet and an honest man you first interested yourself in my welfare, 
and princi])ally as such still you iiermil me to approach you. 

I liavc found the excise business go on a great deal smoother with me 
tli:iii 1 expected; owing a good deal to the generous friendship of Ab-. 
Mitchel, mv collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. Fiiullater, my 
sujicrvisor. " I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do 1 find my 
hurrietl life greatly inimical to ni) correspondence with the Muses. Their 
visits to me" indeed, and I believe to most of their aciiuaintance, like the 
visits of good an-;els. are short and far between ; but I meet them now and 
then as 1 jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the 
banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose you a few' bagatelles, all of 
them the production of my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. 

If vou know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, you will 
onter'into anv humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps \o\\ have 
seen them before, as I sent them to a London newspaper. Though I 
dare say you have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire which 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 465 

shone so conspicuous in Lord (ieorjic Oordon and the Kilmarnock 
weavers, yet 1 think you must have heard of iJr. MX. ill, one of the clergy- 
men of Ayr, and his heretical hook, (iod helj) him, poor man! Though 
he is one of the wortliicst, as well as one of the ablest, of the whole priest- 
hood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, 
yet the jjoor Doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of 
being thrown out to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad 
on that business is, I confess, too local; but J laughed myself at some 
conceits in it, though i am conv'nced in my conscience that there are a 
good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will .see, alludes to the present canvass in 
our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such a hard-run 
match in the wlujle general election. 

I am too little a man to have any political attachments; I am deepiv 
indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, individuals of both 
parties ; but a man who h;is it in his power to be the father of a country, 

and who , is a character that one cannot speak of with 

patience.' 

Sir J. J. does what " what man can do," but yet I doubt his fate. 



No. CXCVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Elusi-and, 13/A December, 1789. 

Many thanks, dear Madam, for your .sheet-full of rhymes. Though 
at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from you everything pleases. 
I am gr(;aning under the miseries of a diseaserl nervous system — a system, 
the state of which is most conducive to our happiness, w the most pro- 
ductive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill with 
a nervous headache, that 1 have been obliged for a time to give up my 
excise-books, being scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride once a 
wec1< over ten muir jiarishes. What is man? — To-day, in the luxuriance 
of health, exulting in the enjoyments of existence; in a few days, perhaps 
in a few hours, loaded with conscious j^ainful being, counting the tardy 
pace of the lingering moments by the repercussions of anguish, and 
refusing or denied a comforter. I.)ay follows night, and night comes after 
day, only to curse him with life which gives him no pleasure; and yet the 
awful, dark termination of that life is .something at which he recoils. 

"Tell us, yc dca'l; will none of you in pity 

iJisclosc the secret - 

What 'lis you are, and we must shortly be ? 

■ — ■ 'tis no matter : 

A little time will make us learned as you arc." 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish being, I shall 
still find myself in conscirjus existence? When the last gasjj of agony has 

' This is evidently " Old Cj.," the Duke of Quecnsbeiry. 



466 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



announced tlnit I am no more to those that knew me, and tlie few who 
loved me ; when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned 
into the earth, to be the prey of unsightly rei)tiles, anil to become in time 
a trodden clod, shall 1 be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and 
enjoyed? Ye venerable sages and holy tlamens, is there probability in 
your conjectures, truth in )our stories, of another world beyond death; or. 
are tiiey all alike, baseless visions and fabricated tables? If there is 
another life, it must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and 
the humane : what a llattering idea, then, is a world to come ! Would to 
(.Jod 1 as hrmlv believed it, as 1 ardently wish it! There I sliall meet 
an aged parent, now at rest from the many bulfetings of an evil world, 
against wliich lie so long and bravely struggled. There should I meet the 
friend, the disinterested friend, of my early life; the man who rejoiced to 
see me, because he loved me and could serve me. Muir, thy weaknesses 
were the aberrations of human nature, but tliy heart glowed with every- 
thing generous, manly, and noble ; and if ever emanation iVom the All- 
good Being animated a human form, it was thine ! There sliould I, with 
speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear Mary ! 
whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love. 

" My Mary, dear departed shade, 

Whore is thy place of heavenly rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'sl thou llie groans that rend his breast? " 

Jesus Christ, thou amialilcst of characters ! I trust thou art no impostor, 
and that Thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence lieyond death and 
the grave is not one of the many impositions which time after time have 
been palmed on credulous mankind. 1 trust that in Thee " shall all the 
families of the earth be blessed," by being yet connected together in a 
better world, where every tie that bound heart to heart in this state of 
existence shall be, far beyond om- present conceptions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that what 
are called nervous affections are in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot 
reason, I cannot think; and, but to you, I would not venture to write any- 
thing above an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of the ills of 
life not to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who has impaired more than 
half of any faculties he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this 
distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcel\- read, and which he 
would throw into the tire, were he able to write anything better, or indeed 
anything at all. 

Rumour told me sometliing of a son of \ours, who was returned from 
the East or West Indies. " If you have gotten news from James or 
Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know; as I promise you, on 
the sincerity of a man who is weary of one world, and anxious about 
another, that scarce anything could give me so much pleasure as to hear of 
any good thing befalling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity to le pauvre 
miserable. — R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 467 



No. CXCVIII. 

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

Sir, 1790- 

The followin;:; circumstance has, I believe, been omitted in the sta- 
tistical account transmitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in Nithsdale. 
1 l)eg leave to send it to you, because it is new, and may be useful. Mow 
far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic publication, you are tlie bes( 
judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with useful knowledge is cer- 
tainly of very great importance, both to them as individuals, and to society 
at large, (living them a turn for reading and rellcction is giving them a 
source of innocent and laudable amusement, and, besides, raises them to 
a more dignified degree in the .scale of rationality. Impressed with this 
idea, a gentleman in this ])arish, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, set on 
foot a species of circulating library, on a i)lan so simple as to be practi- 
cable in any corner of the country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice 
of every country gentleman wiio thinks the imj^rovement of that i)art of 
his own s|)ecies whom chance has thrown into the humble walks of the 
peasant and the artizan a matter worthy of his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants and farming neighbours 
to form themselves into a society for the purpose of having a library among 
them.selves. They entered into a legal engagement to abide by it for 
three years ; with a saving clause or two, in case of a removal to a 
distance, or death. Each member, at his entiy, paid five shillings; and 
at each of their meetings, which were held every fourth -Saturday, sixpence 
more. With their entry-money, and the credit which they took on the 
faith of their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of books at the 
commencement. What authors they were to ])urchase was always de- 
cided by the majority. At every meeting all the books, under certain 
fines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be produced; and the 
members had their choice of the volumes in rotation. Me whose name 
stood, for that night, first on the list, had his choice of what volume he 
pleased in the whole collection ; the second had his choice after the first; 
the third after the second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the preceding meeting, was last at this; 
he who had l)een second was first; and so on, through the whole three 
years. At the expiration of the engagement, the books were .sold by 
auction, but only among the members themselves ; each man had his 
share of the common stock, in money or in books, as he cliose to be a 
purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, which was formed under jMr. 
Riddel's patronage, what with benefactions of books from him, and what 
with their own jjurchases, they had collected together ujjwards of one 
hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a good deal of 
trash would be bought. Among the books, however, of this little library 
were Blair's Sermons, Robertson's History of Scotland, Hume's History of 






468 TbE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

the Stewarts, " The Spectator," " Idler," " Adventurer," " Mirror," 
"Lounger," "Observer," "Alan of Feeling," "Man of the World," 
" Chrysal," "Don Quixote," "Joseph Andrews," &c. A peasant who 
can re.ul and enjoy such books is certainly a much superior being to his 
neighbour who, i)crhaps. stalks beside his team very little removed, except 
in shape, from the brutes he drives. 
Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much merited success, 

I am. Sir, 

Your humble Servant, 

A Peasant. 

No. CXCIX. 

TO LADY WINIFRED MAXWELL CONSTABLE. 

[Lnciy Winifred was grand-daughter of the Earl of Nithsdale, the romantic story 
of whose escape fioni the Tower (w heie he was imprisoned for his share in the 
insurrection of 1715), through the heroism of his wife, is well known. She mar- 
ried William Haggerston (.'onstahle, of Everingham.J 

Ellislanii, 16M Dec, 1789. 

. . . To court the notice or the tables of the great, except where I 
sometimes have had a little matter to ask of them, or more otten the 
pleasanter task of witnessing my gratitude to them, is what 1 have never 
done, and I trust never shall do. But with your ladyship I have the 
honour to be connected by one of the strongest and most endearing ties 
in the whole moral world; common sutTerings in a cause where even to 
be unfortunate is glorious — the cause of heroic loyalty ! Though my 
fathers had not illustrious honours and vast properties to hazard in the 
contest, though they left their humble cottages only to add so many units 
more to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, yet what they 
could they did. and what they had they lost : with unshaken firmness and 
unconcealed political attachments, they shook hands with ruin for what 
they esteemed the cause of their king and their country. This language 
and the enclosed verses [addressed to Mr. William Tytler] are for your 
ladyship's ej-es alone. Poets are not very famous for their prudence; but 
as I can do nothing for a cause which is now nearly no more, 1 do not 
wish to hurt myself. — R. B. 

No. CC. 
TO CHARLES SMARBE, ESQ., 

OF IIODDAM. 

[Mr. Sharpe was a man of some accomplishments — a good violini-^t and a com- 
poser of original music. He also wrote verses for his own airs. The following 
letter was written by Burns under a fictitious signature, enclosing a ballad, in 1790 
or 1 79 1.] 

It is true. Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, and I am a 
poor devil ; you are a feather in the cap of .society, and 1 am a very 



THE LKT-l'EKS OF BURNS. 469 



hobnail In his shoes ; yet I have the honour to belonjj to the same family 
with you, and on that score 1 now address you. You will perhaps susj)ect 
that 1 am goinj; to claim affinity witii the ancient and lioiiouraljJe house of 
Kirkpatrick. No, no, Sir: I cannot indeed be properly said to belong to 
any house, or even any province or kingdom ; as my mother, who for 
many years was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this bad 
world, aboard the packet-boat, somewhere between Donaghadee and Port- 
jiatrick. Hy our common family I mean. Sir, the family of the Muses. I 
am a fiddler and a poet; and you, 1 am told, play an exquisite violin, and 
have a standard taste in the belles lettres. The other day, a brother 
catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your composition, if 1 was 
pleased with the tune, I was in raptures with the title you have given it; 
and taking up the idea, 1 have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. 
Will you allow me. Sir, to jjresent you them, as the dearest (jffering that 
a misbegotten son of pf)verty and rhyme has to give.'' I have a longing to 
take you by tlie iiand and uiiburthen my heart by saying, "Sir, 1 honour 
you as a man wiio supports the dignity of human nature amid an age when 
frivolity and avarice have, between them, deljased us below tiie brutes 
that perir.Ii ! " Hut, alas. Sir ! to me you are unapproachable. It is true, 
the Muses baptized me in Castalian streams, Init the thoughtless gijjsies 
forgot to give me a name. As the sex have served many a good fellow, 
the Nine have given me a great deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades! 
they have beggared me. Would they but sjjare me a little of their cast- 
linen ! Were it only in my power to say that I have a shirt on my back ! 
J'nit, the idle wenches ! like Sf)lomon's lilies, " they toil not, neither d(j they 
spin": .so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like the 
hangman's rojje, round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep 
together their many-coloured fragments. As to the affa-r of shoes, I have 
given that up. My ])ilgrimages in my ballad-trade, fr<jni town to town, 
and on your stony-hearted turnpikes loo, are what not even the hide of 
Job's I'jehemoth could bear. The coat on my back is no more : I shall 
not si)eak evil of the dead. It would be equally unhandsome and un- 
grateful to find fault with my old .surtcjut, which so kindly sujjplies and 
conceals the want of that coat. My hat indeed is a great favourite; and 
th'ough I got it literally for an old song, I would not exchange it for the 
best beaver in Britain. I was, during several years, a kind of fac-totum 
servant to a country clergyman, where I pickt up a good many scraps of 
l;-arning, particularly in some branches of the mathematics. Whenever I 
fjel inclined to rest myself on n^y way, I take my seat under a hedge, 
laying my poetic wallet on the one side, and my fiddle-case on the other, 
and placing my hat between my legs, I can by means of its brim, or 
rather brims, go through the whole doctrine of the Conic .Sections. 

However, .Sir, don't let me mislead you, as if I would interest your pity. 
Fortune has so much forsaken me, tiiat she has taught me to live without 
her; and amid all my rags and poverty, I am as independent, and much 
more happy, than a monarch of the world. According to the hackneyed 
metaphor, 1 value the several actors in the great drama of life simply as 
they act their parts. I can look on a \\orthless fellow of a duke with 



470 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

unqualified conteniot, and can regard an lionest scavenger with sincere 
respect. As you. Sir, go througli your role with such distinguished merit, 
permit me to make one in the chorus of universiil applause, and assure you 
that, with the highest respect, 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. CCI. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Dear Brother, Elusland, wth jaunary, 1790. 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though 1 have not in my 
present frame of mind nuich appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves 
are in a cursed state. 1 feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every 
atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of 
myself. It is a ruinous aflair on all hands. But let it go to hell ! I'll 
fight it out and be oft' with it. 

We have gotten a set of verv decent players here just now. I have seen 
them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the 
man.iger of the companv, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent 
worth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the following prologue, 
which he spouted to his audience with applause : — 

No song or dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity: 
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home. 

I can no more. — If once I am clear of this curst farm, I should respire 
more at my ease. — R. B. 

No. ecu. 
TO MR. WILI-IAM DUNBAR, W. .S. 

Ellisland, nth Jaiiuary, 1790. 

Since we are here creatures of a day, since a "few summer days, 
and a few winter nights, antl the life of man is at an end," why, my dear, 
much-esteemed Sir, should you and I let negligent indolence — for 1 know 
it is nothing worse — step in between us, and bar the enjoyment of a mutual 
correspondence? We are not shapen out of the common, heavy, method- 
ical clod, the elemental stuff of the plodding, selfish race, the sons of 
Arithmetic and Prudence; our feelings and hearts are not benumbed and 
poisoned by the cur.sed influence of riches, which, whatever blessing there 
may be in other respects, are no friends to the nobler qualities of the heart ; 
in the name of random sensibility, then, let never the moon cliange on 
our silence any more. I have had a tract of bad health most part of this 
winter, else you had heard from me long ere now. Thank Heaven, I am 
now got so much better as to be able to partake a little in the enjoyments 
of life. 



THE letters; OF BURNS. . 471 

Our friend Cunningham will perhaps have told you of my going into the 
Excise. Thf; truth is, I found it a very convenient business to have 50/. 
])e, annum, nor have I yet felt any of those mortifying circumstances in it 
that I was led to fear. 

Feb. 2. 

I HAVE not, for sheer hurry of bur;iness, been able to spare five minutes 
to finish my letter. Besides my f?rm business, I ride on my Exxise 
matters at least 200 miles every wc-k. I iiave nf)t by any means givjn 
up the Muses. You will see in the third vol. of Johnson's " Scots Songs" 
that I have contrilnited my mite there. 

Ikit, my dear Sir, little ones that look uj) to you for parental protection 
are an important charge. I have already two fine, healthy, stout little 
fellows, and I wish 10 throw some light upon them. I hat'c a thousand 
reveries and schemes about them and their future destiny — not that I am 
a Utoi^an projector in tliese things. I am resolved never to breed up a 
son of ifline to any of the learned professions. I know the value of inde- 
pendence, and since I cannot give my sons an independent fortune, I shall 
give them an independent line of life. What a chaos of hurry, chance, and 
changes is this world, when one sits soberly down to reflect on it ! To a 
father, who him.self knows the world, the thought that he shall have sons 
to usher into it must fill him with dread ; but if he have daughters, the 
prospect to a thoughtful man is a])t to shock him. 

I ho):)e Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. Do let mc 
forget that they are nieces of yours, and let me say that I never saw a 
more interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. I am the fool of 
my feelings and attachments. I often take up a volume of my Spenser 
[which Mr. Dunl^arhad presented to him] to realise you to my imagination, 
and think over those .social .scenes we have had together. God grant that 
there may be another world more congenial to honest fellows i;eyond this; 
a world where the.se rubs and plagues of absence, distance, misfortunes, ill 
health, &c., shall no more damp hilarity and divide friendship. — R. 13. 



No. CCIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 25//; January, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not 
written to you, Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly better, and I 
now begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest 
of my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed fiienrl, for votir kind letters: but why 
will you make me run the risk of being contemj:)til)le and mercenary in my 
own eyes? When I pique myself on my independent sjMrit, I hope it is 
neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered with the 
hgnour you have done me, in making me your compeer in friendship and 



472 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 

friendly correspondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree of 
mortification, be reminded of the real inequality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do 1 rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good news of 
Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for 
such a noble, warm-liearted. manly }oung fellow in the little I had of his 
acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the " Shipwreck," which you so 
much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he 
so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales 
of fortune, he went to the bottom with the "Aurora" frigate! 

I forget what part of Scotland had ihe honour of giving him birth ; but 
he was the son of obscurity and misfortune. He w;is one of ihose daring 
adventurous spirits which Scotland, beyond any other country, is remark- 
able for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
delighted over the sweet litth leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow 
may hereafter wander, and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in 
an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks 
feelingly to the heart : — 

" Little did my mother think, 
That dny she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die ! " 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine ; 
and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of another 
old simple ballad, which 1 am sure wi'l please you. The catastrophe of 
the piece is a poor mined female, lamenting her fate. She concludes with 
this pathetic wish : — 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd! 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd; 
But that I had died when 1 was young! 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep ! " 

I do not remember, in all my reading, to have met with anything more 
trulv the langiiage of misery than the exclamation in the last line. Misery 
is like love ; "to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting tlie doctor to give your little godson ^ the 
small-pox. They are r//fc' in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By 
the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every 
person who sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child 
he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little 
chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and the 
glance of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
independent mind. 

' His second son, Francis. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 473 

I ♦.hought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise 
you poetry until you are tired of it next time 1 have the honour of assuring 
you how truly 1 am, &c. — R. B. 



No. CCIV. 
TO MR. PETER HILL, 

BOOKSKI.I.ER, EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, ind Feb., 1790. 

No ! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not 
writing ; I am a poor, rascally ganger, condemned to gallop at least 200 
miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where can 
I find time to write to, or importance to interest, anybody? The upbraid- 
ings of my conscience, nay, tlie upljraidings of my wife, have persecuted me 
on your account these two or three months past. I wish to God I was a 
great man, that my correspondence might throw light upon you, to let the 
world see what you really are ; and tlien 1 would make your fortune, 
without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other great 
men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible. What are )ou doing, 
and how are vou doing? Have you lately seen any of my few friends? 
What has Ijecome of the Borough Reform, or how is the fate of my poor 
namesake Mademoiselle Burns decided? . . . O man! but for thee, and 
thy selrtsh appetites and dishonest arlitices, that beauteous form, and that 
once innocent and still ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicuous 
and lovely in the faithful wife and the affectionate mother; and shall the 
unfortunate .sacrifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy humanity? 

1 saw lately in a Review some extracts from a new poem called " The 
Village Curate": send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of "The 
World." Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the honour to 
mention me so kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the 
copy of his book : I shall write him my first leisure hour. I like his poetry 
muc-h, but I think his style in prose tjuite astonishing. — R. B. 



No. CCV. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

[The Poet's marriage did not entirely break off his correspondence with Mrs. 
M'Lehose. Slie had written to him reproachfully, and the following is liis reply.] 

Feb., 1790 (?). 

I HAVE indeed been ill, Madain, the whole winter. An incessant head- 
ache, depression of spirits, and all the truly miserable consequences of a 
deranged nervous system, have made dreadful havoc of my health and 
peac.e. Add to all this, a line of life into which I have lately entered 



474 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

obliges me to ridr, on the average, at least 200 miles every week. However, 
thank Heaven, I am now greatly better in my health. . . . 

1 cannot, will not, enter into extenuatory circumstances ; else I could 
show )'ou how my precipitate, headlong, unthinking conduct leagued with a 
conjuncture of unlucky events to thrust me out of a possibility of keeping 
the path of rectitude to curse me, by an irreconcileable war between my 
duty and my nearest wlslics, and to damn me with a choice only of different 
species of error and misconduct. 

1 dare not trust myself further with tliis subject. The following song is 
one of my latest productions, and 1 send it you as I would do anything 
else, because it pleases myself. 

[Here follows " My Lovely Nancy," given in page 90.] 



No. CCVI. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

My dear Sir, Ellisland, Feb. 9, 1790. 

That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I would freely have given 
her price to ha\e saved her; she has vexed me beyond description. 
Indebted as I was to your goodness beyond what I can ever repay, I 
eagerly grasj^ed at your ofter to have the marc with me. That I might at 
least show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I took every care of her 
in my power. She was never crossed for riding abo\e half a score o'. 
times by me or in my keeping. I drew her in the plough, one of three, for 
one poor week. I refused fifty-f^^•e shillings for her, which was the highest 
bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her in tine order for 
Dumfries fair, when, four or five days before the fair, she was seized with 
an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the 
neck ; with a weakness or total want of power in her fillets ; and, in short, 
the whole vertebrae of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged ; and 
in eight and forty hours, in spite of the two best farriers in the country, 
she died — and be d-mned to her! The farriers said that she had been 
quite strained in the fillets beyond cure before you had bought her ; and 
that the poor devil, though she might keep a little flesh, had been jaded 
and quite worn out with fatigue and oppression. While she was with me, 
she was under my own e)e : and I assure you, my much \'alued friend, 
everything was done for her that could be done ; and the accident has 
ve.\ed me to the heart. In fact, I could not pluck up spirits to write to 
you on account of the unfortunate business. 

There is little new in this country. Our theatrical company, of which 
you must have heard, leave us this week. Their merit and character are 
indeed very great, both on the stage and in private life; not H worthless 
creature among them ; and their encouragement has been accordingly. 
Their usual run is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds a night: seldom 
less than the one, and the house will hold no more than the other. There 
have been repeated instances of sending away six, and eight, and ten 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 475 

pounds a niglit for want of room. A new theatre is to be built by sub- 
scription : the first stone is to be laid on Friday first to come. Three 
hundred guineas liave been raised by thirty subscribers, and thirty more 
might have been got if wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was intro- 
duced to me by a friend from Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I 
have rarely met with. Some of our clergy have slipped in by stealth now 
and then ; but they have got up a farce of their own. You must have 
heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. 
Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, have accused in 
formal process the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron of Kirkgunzeon, that 
in ordaining Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean he, the said 
Heron, feloniously and treasonably bound the said Nielson to the con- 
fession of faitii, so far as it was agreeable to reason and the IVord of God! 
Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most gratefully to you. Little Bobby 
and Frank are charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to death with 
fatigue. For these two or three months, on an average, I have not ridden 
less than two hundred miles per week. I have done little in the poetic 
way : I have given Mr Sutherland two prologues ; one of which was 
delivered last week. I h?ve likewise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, 
to the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor unfortunate 
mare, beginning (the name she got here was Peg Nicholson) : 

"Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
As ever trod on airn : 
But now she's floating down the N-'th, 
And past the mouth o' Cairn." — &c. {Page 155.) 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little Neddy, and all the 
family. I hope Ned is a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuts 
and apples with me next harvest. — R. B. 



No. CCVII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

EllislaND, 13M Fehruary, 1790. 

I BEG j'our pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to )0U 
on this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet — 

" My poverty, but not my will, consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post I have none, except one poor 
widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my plebeian 
foolscap pages, like the widow of a man of fashion, whom that unpolite 
scoundrel. Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pineapple to a dish 
of Bohea, with the scandal-bearing he]]:)mate of a village priest: or a glass 
of whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-padding excise- 
man ; I make a vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary fragments in 
that my only scrap of gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters. I ought 
to have written to you long ere now ; but it is a literal fact, I. have scarcely 



476 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



a spare moment. It is not that I ivill not write to you ; Miss Burnet is 
not more dear to iier guardian angel, nor his Grace the Duke of Queens- 
berry to the powers of darkness, than my friend Cunningham to me. It is 
not that I cannot write to you : should ) ou doubt it. take the following 
fragment, which was intended for you some time ago, and be convinced 
that I can antithcsize sentiment, and circiunvolnte periods, as well as any 
coiner of phrase in the regions of philology : — 

My dear Cunningham, December, 1789. 

Where are you.? And what are you doing? Can you be that son 
of levity who takes up a friendship as he takes up a fashion? or are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim of 
indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have a portion of conscious 
existence ecjually capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely worthy of an 
inquiry, whether there be not such a thing as a science of life ; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients be not applicable to enjoy- 
ment; and whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
renders our little scantling of happiness still less, and a profuseness. an 
intoxication in bliss, which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. 
There is not a doubt but that health, talents, character, decent com- 
petency, respectable friends, are real substantial blessings ; and yet do we 
not daily see those who enjoy many or all of these good things contrive, 
notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of them have 
fallen? I believe one great source of this mistake or misconduct is owing 
to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, which goads us up the hill 
of life, not as we ascend other eminences, for the laudable curiosity 
of viewing an extended landscape, but rather for the dishonest pride of 
looking down on others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive in 
humbler stations, &c., &C. 

Suminy, nth February, 1790. 

God help me ! I am now obliged to join 

" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am d-mned 
past redemption, and, what is worse, d-mned to all eternity. I am deeply 
read in Boston's "Fourfold State," Marshal on Sanctitication, Guthrie^s 
" Trial of a Saving Interest," &c. ; but " there is no balm in Gilead, there is 
no physician there," for me : so I shall e'en turn Arminian, and trust to 
" sincere though imperfect obedience." 

Tuesday, tSth. 

Luckily for me, I was prevented from the discussion of the knotty 
point at which I had just made a full stop. All my fears and care are of 
this world : if there is another, an honest man has nothing to fear from it. 
I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist ; but I fear every fair, unprejudiced 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 477 

inquirer must in some degree be a Sceptic. It is not that there are any- 
very staggering argumenls against tlie immortality of man; but, like elec- 
tricity, phlogiston, &c., the subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me much: that we are to live for 
ever seems too good news to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want and pain, we shall enjoy 
ourselves and our friends without satiety or separation — how much should 
I be indebted to any one who could fully assure me that this was 
certain ! 

My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God 
bless him and all his. concerns ! And may all the powers that preside 
over conviviality and friendship be present with all their kindest influence 
when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet! — I wish I could also 
make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever 
things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever things are 
kind, think on these things, and think on 

R. B. 



No. CCVIII. 
TO MR. HILL. 

[The order for the works of the dramatists is supposed to indicate a design on 
Burns's part to try his own hand at dramatic composition.] 

Elusi.and, id March, 1790. 

.... In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want very 
much " An Index to the Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the 
Statutes now in force relative to the Excise," by Jellinger Symons : I want 
three copies of this book ; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for 
me. An honest country neighbour of mine wants too a Family Bible, the 
larger the better, but second-handed, -for he does not choose to give above 
ten 'shillings for the book. I want likewise for myself, as you can pick 
them up. second-handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dramatic Works, 
Ben Jonson's, Dryden\s, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Vanbrugh\s, Gibber's, or 
any Dramatic Works of the more modern, Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Col- 
man, or Sheridan. A good copy too of Moliere, in French. I much want. 
Any other good dramatic authors in that language I want also ; but comic 
authors chiefly, though I should wish to have Racine. Corneille, and Vol- 
taire too. I am in no hurry for all or any of these, but if you accidentally 
meet with them very cheap, get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how do you do, my dear 
friend? and how is Mrs. Hill? I trust, if now and then not so elegantly 
handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as divinely as ever. My good 
wife too has a charming " wood-note wild ; " now could we four . 

I am out of all patience with this vile world for one thing. Mankind 
are by nature benevolent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly instances. 



478 THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 

I do not think that avarice of the good things we chance to have is bom 
with us; but we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, 
and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity of studying 
selfishness, in order that we may exist ! Still there are, in every age. a 
few souls, that all the wants and woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, 
or even to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If ever I am in 
danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate myself on this side of my dispo- 
sition and character. God knows 1 am no saint ; 1 have a whole host of 
follies and sins to answer for ; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far as 
I can, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes. Adieu ! 

R. B. 



No. CCIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \otk April, 1790. 

I HAVE just now, my ever honoured friend, enjoyed a very high 
luxury, in reading a paper of the " Lounger." You know my national 
prejudices. I have often read and admired the " Spectator," " Adventurer," 
"Rambler," and "World"; but still with a certain regret, that they were 
so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! have I often said to myself, 
what are all the boasted advantages which my country reaps from the 
union, that can counterbalance the annihilaiion of her independence, and 
even her very name ! I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

-States of native liberty possest, 



Tho' very poor, may yet be very bles"." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common ternys, " English ambassador, 
English court," &c. And I am out of all patience to see that equivocal 
character, Hastings, impeached by " the Commons of England." Tell 
me, my friend, is this weak prejudice? I believe in my conscience such 
ideas as "my country; her independence; her honour; the ilkistrious 
names that mark the history of my native land"; &c. — I believe these, 
among your 7nen of the world, men who in fact guide for the most part 
and govern our world, are looked on as so many modifications of 
wrongheadedness. They know the use of bawling out such terms, to 
rouse" or lead the rabble ; but for their own private use, with almost all 
the able statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk of right 
and wrong, they only mean proper and improper ; and their measure of 
conduct is, not what they ought, but what they dare. For the truth of 
this I shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to -one of the 
ablest judges of man that ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. 
In fact, a man who could thoroughly control his vices whenever they 
interfered with his interests, and who could completely put on the appear- 
ance of every virtue as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopian 
plan, the perfect 7ftan; a man to lead natioas. But are great abilities 



complete without a flaw, and polished witJiout a blemish, the standard of 
human excellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion of men of the 
world ; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine 
a loud negative ! However, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract 
from man the idea of an existence beyond the grave, t/ieu the true 
measure of human conduct is proper and improper : virtue and vice, 
as dispositions of the heart, are, in. that case, of scarcely the same import 
and value to the world at large as harmony and discord in the modifi' 
cations of sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, 
though it may sometimes give the possessor an ecstacy unknown to the 
coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh gratings and 
inharmonic jars in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds but the indi- 
vidual world be as happy, and certainly would be as much respected by 
the true judges of society, as it would then stand, without either a good 
ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the " Mirror " and " Lounger" for the 
first time, and I am quite in raptures with them : I should be glad to have 
your opinion of some of the papers. The one I have just read, " Lounger," 
No. 6i, has cost me more honest tears than anything I have read a 
long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the Scots, and, in 
my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. If he has not 
Addison's exquisite humour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tender and 
the pathetic. His " Man of Feeling" (but I am not counsel learned in the 
laws of criticism) I estimate as the first performance in its kind I ever 
saw. From what book, moral or even pious, will the susceptible young 
mind receive impressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, gener- 
osity and benevolence — in short, more of all that ennobles the soul to 
herself, or endears her to others — than from the simple affecting tale of 
poor Harley.'' 

Still, with all my admiration of IVLackenzie's writings, I do not know if 
they are the fittest reading for a young man who is about to set out, as the 
phrase is, to make his way into life. Do not you think. Madam, that 
among the few favoured of Heaven in the structure of their minds (for 
such there certainly are) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an 
elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, absolutely 
disqualifying, for the truly important business of making a man's way into 

lite.'' If I am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend A 

is very much under these disqualifications : and for the voung females of 
a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solicitude : for I, a 
common acquaintance, or, as my vanity will have it, an humble friend, 
have often trembled for a turn of mind which may render them eminently 
happy — or peculiarly miserable! 

I have been manufacturing some verses lately ; but as I have got the 
most hurried season of Excise business over, I hope to have more leisure 
to transcribe anything that may show how much 1 have the honour to be, 
Madam, 

Yours, &c., 

R. B. 



480 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

No. CCX. 

TO COLLECrOR MITCHELL. 

[This letter refers to an Excise case, a fanner having reclaimed against a fine 
imposed by Collector Mitchell.] 

tjlj^ Ei.LiRi_AND, 1790. 

I .shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel to-night — I wish and 
pray that the Goddess of Justice herself would appear to-morrow among 
our'hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear that mercy 
to the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my part, I have galloped 
over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment that I am just 
alighted, or. rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me 
down, for the miserable devil has been on his knees half a score of times 
within the last twenty miles, telling me in his own way, " Behold, am not I 
thv fiithful jade of a horse, on which thou hast ridden these many years!" 
In short. Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, and almost broke my own 
neck, besides some injuries in a part that .shall be nameless, owing to a 
hardhearted stone for a saddle. I find that every offender has so many 
great men to espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised if I am not 
committed to the stronghold of the law to-morrow for insolence to the 
dear friends of the gentlemen of the country. 

1 have the honour to be. Sir. 

Your oblitred and obedient humble 

R. B. 

No. CCXL 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Cjp Dumfries, Excise-Office, x^th July, 1790. 

Coming into town this morning to attend my duty in this office, 
it being collection-day. 1 met with a gentleman who tells me he is on hi.s 
way to' London; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, as franking_ 
is at present under a temi)orary death. I shall have .some snatches of 
leisure through the dav. amid our horrid business and bustle, and 1 shall 
improve them as well'as I can; but let my letter be as stupid as . . . , 
as miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a hungry grace-before- 
meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause, as ill-spelt 
as country John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Bjre- 
Mucker's answer to it. I hope, considering the circumstances, you will forgive 
it ; and as it will put you to no expense of postage, I shall have the less 
reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your most 
valuable present," Zeluco." In fact, you^are in some degree blameable for 
fliy neglect. You were pleased to express a wish for my opinion of tht 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 481 

work, which so flattered me, that nothing less would serve my over- 
weening fancy than a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I have 
gravely planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and 
Smollett, in your different qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, 
1 own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never bring 
the business to bear; and I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shews 
in the book of Job — "And I said, I will also declare my opinion." I have 
quite disfigured my copy of the book with my annotations. I never take 
it up without at the same time taking my pencil, and marking with 
ascerisms, parentheses, &c., wherever I meet with an original thought, a 
nervous remark on life and manners, a remarkable well-turned period, or 
a character sketched with uncommon precision. 

Though I should hardly think of fairly writing out my "Comparative 
View," I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, .such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the 
book of Revelation — " That time shall be no more ! " 

The little collection of .sonnets [by Mrs. Charlotte Smith] have some 
charming poetry in tliem. If indeed I am indebted to tlie fair autlior for 
the book, and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated auliior of the other 
sex, I should certainly have written to the hdy, with my grateful acknowl- 
edgments, and my own ideas of tiie comparative excellence of her pieces. 
I would do this last, not from any vanity of thinking that my remarks 
could be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own 
feelings as an author, doing as I would be done by. — R. V>. 



No. CCXII. 
TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON. 
My dear Sir, Ellisland, July 16M, 1790. 

I received a letter from you a long time ago, but unfortunately, as 
It was in the time of my peregrinations and journeyings through Scotland, 
I mislaid or lost it, and, i)y consequence, your direction along with it. 
Luckily my good star brouglit me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, who I 
understand is an acquaintance of yours ; and by his means and mediation 
I iiope to replace that link which my unfortunate negligence had so 
unluckily broke in the chain of our correspondence. I was the more 
vex:."d at the vile accident, as my brother William, a journeyman saddler, 
his been for some time in Lond(jn ; and wished above all things for 
y )ur direction, that he might have paid his respects to his father's 
friend. 

His last address he sent me was, "Wm. Burns, at Mr. Barber"'s, saddler. 
No. 181, Strand." I writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but neglected to ask him 
for your address; so, if you find a spare half-minute, please let my 
brother know by a card where and when he will find you, and the poor 



482 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of the few surviving friends of the 
man whose name, and Christian name too. he has the honour to boar. 

The no\t letter 1 write you shall be a long one ; I have nuich to toll you 
of " hair-breadth 'scapes in th" imminent deadly breach," with all tlie 
eventful liistory of a lite.^ the early years of which owed so much to youi 
kind tutorage ; but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest compliments 
to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 

I am ever, my dear Sir. 

Your obliged Friend, 

R. B. 



No. CCXIII. 

TO MR. McMURDO. 

SlR^ F,LUStj\Nr), r</ August, 1790. 

Now that yon arc over with the sirens of Flattery, the harpies of 
Corruption, and the furies of Ambition, these infernal deities that on all 
sides, and in all parties, preside over the villanous business of Politics, 
permit a rustic muse of your acquaintance to do her best to soothe you 
with a song.'- 

You knew Henderson — I have not flattered his memory. 

1 have the honour to be. Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CCXIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

DE.VR M.A.D.\M. iih Augy4st,xy^. 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you. 
Ask me not why \ have delayed it so long. It was owing to hurry, indo- 
lence, and fifty other tilings ; in short, to anything — but forgetfulness o( la 
plus ixtiiiablc th- son scxc. By the by. you are indebted yoiu" best courtesy 
to me for this last compliment; as I pav it from my sincere conviction of 
its truth — a quality rather r.u'e in compliments of tiiese grinning, bowing, 
scraping times. 

Well, 1 hope writing to you will ease a little my troubled soul. .Sorely 
has it been bruised to-day! K ci-ili'vaitt friend of mine, and an intimate 
acquaintance of yours, has given my teelings a wound that I perceive will 
gangrene dangerously ere it cure. Ho has wounded my pride ! — R. B. 

' This promised account of liimsclf, .is far as is known, was never written. 

" .\ poem on the de.-ith of Captain Matthew Henderson, with whom Uiuns w.is acqnaintcil wlien 
"n Edinbtirgh. Henderson died Nov. at, 1788. 



Tirr. LETTERS OE 'lUJfWS. 483 



No. COilV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

Ki.r.iHi.ANrj, 8/A AuKutt, 178!?. 

Ff)Kf;iVK m<r, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negli- 
;;ence. Yon cannot sil down and faney the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose-feallier to beat my brains for an apt .simile, and 
li.if! some tlioii;4lits of a cfjinitry granmim at a family christening; a bride 
oM ihe marl<et-(lay before her marriage; or a tavc-rn-keeper at an eiection- 
fiinner; ImiI the resemblance that hits my fancy best is that blackguard 
miscreant .Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, .leurc/iht)^ 
whom he may devf»iir. However, tossed about as J am, if I choose (and 
who would not clujose?) to l^ind down with the cramjjets of Attention the 
brazen fountlation of Integrity, I may rear up the superstructure of Inde- 
penrlence, and from its daring turrets bid d(rfianf:e to the storms of fate. 
And is not this a "consummation devoutly to be wished"? 

"Thy fipir'l, In'irpcndcncc, Id mc sh.'irc; 
Lord of the liori-hcirt anrj c;i(4lc-cye! 
Thy Mcp<i 1 folio* with my bow>m hare. 

Nor hcc'l the »torm that howls vAonn the %Vy\ " 

Are not these noble verses? They are the introduction of Smollett's 
Ode to IiifiepcMulence : if you have not .seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. How wreU lied is the man that hangs on by the favours of the 
great! To shrink from every dignitv of man at the apjiroach of a lordly 

f)iece of self-consef|uence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter anrl stately 
lauteur, is but a creature formerl as thou art — and perhaps not so well 
formed as thou art — came into the wfjrlrl a puling infantas thou didst, 
and must go out of it as all men must, a naked corse. — K. B. 



No. CCXVI, 

Tf; \)\i. ANDERSON. 

[Dr. James AnHcrson was eflitor of the " I5ee," and through Dr. Blacklock had 
a.skcd iJurni U) become a contiibulor.] 

SiK, r'7'/>-] 

I am much indebterl to my worthy friend Dr. lilackiock fr^r intro- 
ducing me to a gentleman of Dr. Anderson's celebrity: but when you do 
me the honour to ask my assistance in your proposed jjublication, alas, 
Sir ! you might as well exj^ect to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of 
an advocate's wig, or humiliiy unrler the (Geneva band. I am a miserable 
hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding the noses of 
the poor jjublicans to the grindstone of the Excise I and, like Milton's 
Satan, for j^rivate reasons, am forced 

" To 'lo what y<;t iho' 'laniriM I woiil'l ahhor;" 

— and accept a couplet or two of honest execration ... — R. ii. 



484 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CCXVII. 
Tf~t CRAUIX^RP TMT, KSQ. 

Dear Sir, Km-iriand, isM AVf^rr, 1790. 

Allow nio !o introvluco to your acquaintanco the hoaror. Mr. W'm. 
Duncan, a Irioml k>\ iiiinc, whom 1 have loii<; kuv)\vM anil Knig iovcil. ULs 
f;itluM\ whoso only son ho is. has a ilocont littlo pioporty in Ayrsiuro, and 
h.is brotl the Nouns;' nuin to the law, in which doparlniont he comes up an 
adventurer to your iiood town. 1 sh.dl <;ive you my iViend's character in 
two words: as to his heail. he l\.is t.ilonts enoUi;h ami more th.m enough, 
for conunou lite; as to his he.irt. when N.iture h.ul kneaded the kindly 
clay that composes it, she .said, " 1 can no more." 

You, my ho(h1 Sir, were horn under kinder stars; Init vonr tratern.il 
sympathy. I well know, can enter into the teelinns ot' the youns; man 
who jioes into lite with the laudable ambition to </<' .somethini;, and to be 
somethiui; amom; his lellow-cieatures, but whom the consciousness of 
friendless obscuritv presses to tlie earth and wounds to the soul ! 

Even tlie t.uresi ot his virtues are .i_<i,unst him. That iiulependent spirit 
and tl\.il ingenuous modesty ^ — qu.iiities insep.u^able tron\ a noble nund — are, 
witli the million, circumstances not a little disiiu-dilvini;. Wh.it i>lea.>urc 
is in the power of the fortunate anil the hajipv. hy their notice and ii.itron- 
age, to brijilUen the countenance and jil.ul the heart of such ilepressed 
youth I 1 am not .so anj;ry with mankind lor their deaf economy of the 
purse; the goods of this world cannot be divided without being lessoned: 
but why bo a niggard of tluit which bestows bliss on a lellow-creaturo, yet 
takes nothing tVom our own moans of enjoyment.'' We wr.ij) ourselves up 
in the clo;ik of our own bettor fortune, and turn aw.iy our eyes, lost the 
wants and woes of our brother-mortals should disturb the selfish ajKithy of 
our .souls ! 

I am the worst h.md in the world at asking a fivour. 'I'lut indirect 
address, that insinuating implication, which, without any positive roiiuest, 
plainly expresses your wish, is a t.dont not to be acquireil at ;i plough-tail. 
Toll me then, for you cm. in what periphr.isis of I.mguago. in wh.it cir- 
cumvolution of phrase. 1 shall envelop, vet not conceal, this pi. un story: 
" My dear Mr. T.iit, my friend Mr. Dunc.m. whom 1 have the pleasure lU" 
introducing to von, is ;i young l.ulof your own iJiofossion, and a gentlem.m 
of much modesty and groat worth, rerhajis it mav bo in your power to 
assist him in the, to him, im|)ortant consideration of getting a place ; but, 
at all events, your notice and acquaintance will be a very groat ai:n^iiisition 
to him; and 1 dare pledge mv.self that he will never disgrace your favour." 

You may po.ssibly be snrpri.sod, .Sir, at such;i letter from mc ; 'tis, 1 own, 
in the usual w.iy of calculating those matters, more than our acqu.iintanee 
entitles me to; but my answer is short: Of all the men at your time of 
liO." whom 1 knew in Kdinburgh, you are the most ;iccessible on the side 
on which I have assailed you. You are very much altered iiulied fVoin 



THE LETTERS OF HURNS. 485 



what you were when I knew you, if generosity point iIk; j>;itli yoti will not 
trcaM, or humanity call to you in vain. 

As to myself, a hein;^ to v/hose interest I believe you are still a well- 
wisher, I an her(;, hreatliing at all times, (liinkin;^ sometimes, anrl rhyming 
now and then. ICvery situation has its share i)i the cares and pains of 
life, and my situatifjn I am persuaded lias a full ordinary allr^waiitc of it» 
pleasures and enjrjyments. 

My best comjjiiments to your fathc-r anrl Mi.s 'lait. If you have an 
o]);)orlunity, please remftmber me in the solemn lea;^ue and covenant of 
frienfl-ihip to iVlrs. l,<nvis Ibiy. I am a wnrlcii for not writing her; but I 
am so harkneyed with self-accusation in ih;it way, that my conscience 
li(;s in my bosr)m with scarce the sensibility of an oyster in its shell. 
Where is Lady McKenzie'? wherever she is, (iod bless her! I liktrwise 
beg leave to (rouble ytjii with compliments to jMr. Wm. Hamilton, Mrs. 
Hamilton and family, and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are in that country. 
Should you meet wiU Miss Nimmo, plea.sc remember me kindly to her. 

R. B. 

No. CCXVIII. 
TO 

['Hiis letter was perhaps addrcuHct! V) (Javin I I;iiiiilt(jii.J 
DiCAK SiK, l',i./isi,A.'i(>, i7c/r<. 

Whether in the w;iy of my trade 1 can be of any .service to the 
Rev. Doctor is, I fear, very doubtful. AJax's shield consisted, I think, of 
seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which altogether set Hector's utmost 
force at defiance. Alas! 1 am not a Hectf>r, and the wf)rthy Doctor's foes 
are as securely armerl as Ajax was. Ignorance, su|;erstition, bigotry, 
fttujjidity, malevolence, self-conceit, envy — all stnjngly bound in a massy 
frame of brazen impudence, (iood (iod, Sir! to such a shield, humour 
i.s the peck of a sparrow, and satire the ]jo))-gun of a scliool-boy. Creation- 
diiigraciiig scMi'rals sur h as tliey fJod only (an mend, and the devil only 
•can punish. In the comi;reh(;nding wav fif (.'aligiila, I wish they all had 
but on<; n(;(k. I feel impotent as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! O 
for a withering ( urse to blast the g(;rmins of their wicked machinations. 
O for a poisonous tornado, winged from the lr»rrifl zone of Tartarus, to 
Sweej; the sjjreading crop of their villanrjus cr>ntrivances \.u the lowest 
hell! — K. li. 



No, CCXIX. 
TO MK.S. DUNLOP. 

K(,!,rsLANi>, Nmiember, it/j- 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, .so is good news f,om a far country." 
Fate has long owed me a letter rjf goofl new i from yrju, in return for the 
many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I mcst 



486 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

cordially obey the Apostle — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice." For me, 
to sing ior ]o\ , is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as 1 have done in 
the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which 
I never rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy: how could such a mer- 
curial creature as a poet lumpishiy keep his seat on the receipt of the best 
news from his best friend.? 1 seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an 
instrument indispensably necessary in my left hand, in the moment of 
inspiration and rapture ; and stride, stride — quick and quicker — out skipt 
I among the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my joy by retail. To 
keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's' is a more 
elegant, but not more sincere, compliment to the sweet little fellow than I, 
extempore almost, poured out to him in the following verses : — 

" Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. 

And ward o' mony a prayer. 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, an' fair? 
November hirples o'er the lea 

Chill on thy lovely form; 
But gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree 

Should shield thee frae the storm." 

I am much flattered by your approbation of my " Tam o' Shanter,'' which 
you express in your former letter; though, by the by, you load me in that 
said letter with accusations heavy and many ; to all which I plead, fiot 
guilty! Your book is, 1 hear, on the road to reach me. As to printing of 
poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have only to spell it right, 
and place the capital letters properly : as to the punctuation, the printers 
do that themselves. — R. B. 



No. CCXX. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, ijifi January, 1791. 

Take these two guineas, and place them over against that d-mned 
account of vours, wliicli has gagged my mouth these five or six months ! 
I can as little write good tilings as apologies to the man I owe money to. 
O the sapreme curse of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
Not all the labours of Hercules, not all the Hebrews' three centuries of 
Egyptian bondage, were such an insuperable business, such an infernal 
task ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell ! 
where shall 1 find force of execration equal to the amplitude of thy 
demerits? Oppressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the 
practice of every virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, implores a 
little, little aid to support his existence from a stony-hearted son of 
Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by him 
denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose 

' The poetical milkmaid. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 487 



heart glows with independence and melts with sensibility, inly pines under 
the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul under the contumely, of arro- 
gant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill- 
starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, 
must see in suffering silence his remark neglected and his person despised, 
while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meqt with 
countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have 
reason to complain of thee: the children of folly and vice, though in 
common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. 
Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education 
is condemned as a fool for his dissipation ; despised and shunned as a 
needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want; and when his 
unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred 
as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his country. But far other- 
wise is the lot of the man of family and fortune. His early follies and 
extravagance are spirit and fire ; his consecjuent wants are the embarrass- 
ments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained 
a legal commission to plunder distant pro\inces, or massacre peaceful 
nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder, 
lives wicked and respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. Nay, worst 
of all, alas! for helpless woman. The needy prostitute, who has shivered 
at the corner of the street, wailing to earn the wages of casual prostitution, 
is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by the chariot-wheels of the 
coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she who, without 
the .same necessities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they please, but execration is to 
the mind whit phlebotomy is to the body : the vital sluices of both are 
wonderfully relievjd by their respective evacuations. — R. B. 

No. CCXXI. 
TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ.^ 

Sir Ellisland, February [A/ri7?], 1791. 

Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with could 
have prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His own 
favourite poem, and that an essay in the walk of the Muses entirely new to 
him, where consequently his hopes and fears were on the most anxious j 
alarm for his success in the attempt, — to have that poem so much ap- | 
plauded by one of the first judges, was the most delicious vibration that 
ever thrilled along the heart-strings of a poor poet. However, Providence, 
to keep up the proper proportion of evil with the good, which it seems is . 
necessary in this sublunary state, thought proper to check my exultation : 
by a very serious misfortune. A day or two after I received your letter J 
my horse came down witii me and broke my right arm. As this is the first ; 
service my arm has done me since its disaster, I find myself unable to do ! 
more than just in general terms thank you for this additional instance of ; 

! 
• Lord Woodhouslee. I 



4^8 77/A" L/-:ri'£:/cs of aCAWS. 

your p:\tron;\go nnd friendship. As to the thults you detected in the piece 
thoy are truly there: one ot thoni, the hit at the la\v\er and priost. 1 shall 
cut out ; as to the t.Uliui; otV in the catastrophe, tor tito reason y.ni justly 
adduce, it cani\ot e.isily he remedied. Voiu^ approbation. Sir. has jiivon me 
such additional spirits to persevere in this sjH^cies ol" poetic composition, 
that 1 am alreaily revolving two or three stories in mv lancy. It' I cm 
bring these floating iileas to bear any kind of embodied t'orm, it will give 
me an additional opportunity ot" assuring ycu how much 1 h.ue the hoaour 
to be, <S:c. — R. B. 

No. CCXXII. 
TO MRS. lU'Nl.OP. 

El.l.lSU.\ND, jtA Pfh. [.^/^-//.#], iT^t. 

WiticN 1 tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not from my horse, but with 
my horse,' 1 have been a cripple some time, and that this is the tii-st il.iy 
my arm anil haml have been able to serve me in writing, you will allow 
that it is too gooil an apology for my seemingly ungr.iteful silence. 1 ant 
now getting better, ami am able to rhyme a little, which implies .some 
tolei'able ease ; as 1 canuot think that the most poetic genius is able to 
compose on the rack. 

1 (\o not remember if ever 1 mentioned to you my having an idea of 
compt^sing an elegy on the Lite .Miss lUiruet of Moubodilo. 1 had the 
honour ot being pretty well acipiaiutetl with her, and h.ue .selilom tilt so 
much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when I hearil that .so amiable 
and accomi>lished a jiiece of tunPs work w.is iu> more. 1 h.ive as yet 
gone no tarther than the lollowing fragment, of which please let me have 
yovu" opinion. You know that elegy is a .subject so much exhausted, that 
any new idea on the business is not to be expecteil ; 'tis well if we cm 
place an old iilea in a new light. How far 1 have succeeded as to this l.ist 
YOU will juilge from wh.tt tollmvs. 

[Hero comes the I'legy.J 

I have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kiiul m/w/nbrii/Lt' of your godson, came 
sate. This last. Madam, is .scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the 
little fellow, he is, parti.ility apart, the linest boy 1 have of a long time 
.seen. He is now seventeen months oUl. has the small-po.\ anil measles 
over, has cut .several teeth, and never hatl a grain of iloctoi\s ilrugs in his 
bowels. 

I am truly hapjiy to hear that the "little floweret" is blooming so iVesh 
aiul lair, and that the "mother i)lant " is rather recovering her drooping 
head. Soon ami well may her " cruel wounds " be healed ! I have written 
thus far with a good deal of dilhculty- When 1 get a little abler you shall 
hear further from, 

iMadam, \i>urs, 

R. B. 

• lie li.ui .-» bail f.ill iuij broke liis right arm. 



TJIK LETTKKS OF BURNS. 4^9 



No, CCXXIIT. 
'R) rilK KEV, AKCII, ALJSON, 

\'X\\(: Rrv. Arf;b. Alisort, a clergyman of the Knj4li»h f'hurch, is best known ;>«i 
Ihc .-luilior of " An Kssay on 'I astc," ati'l as the father of the late Sir Archilwid 
Aliv)ri, the historian of Kurojje, iMi^'ahl Stewart lian referre'l to this h;tier a^i 
jiroof ttiat IJuins, inifjerfectly educated as lie was, ha<l formed "a rhstinet coiice|>- 
ii /ti of the general principles of the doctrine of a»>K»ciation,"] 

v;ij{ Klmki-and, near Dunt/riei, M\lh /■'//'., 17'yi. 

You must by this titne have set me down as one of the most 
iiD^'ratcfiil of men. You did me the honour to present me witli a hooi< 
which does honour to science and the intellectual j^owers of man, and I 
have not ev<Ti so nuteh as acknowledged llie receipt of it. The fact is, 
you yourself are to hiame for it. Mattererl as I was by your tellin;^ me 
that you wishcfl to have mv opinion of the work, the ohl sj^iritital enemy of 
mankind, wlio knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most easily 
beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the performance with the 
look-out of a critic, anrl to draw uij, forsooth ! a deejj learned digest of 
strictures on a romjjosition of which, in fact, until I read the bofjk, I did 
not even know tlie first principles. I own. Sir, that at first glance several 
of your [jropositioiis startled me as jiaradoxical. That the martial clangor 
of a trumjx.t had som(;thiiig in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, 
than the twingle-twangle of a jews-har|> ; that tlie delicate flexure of a 
rose-twig, wh'-n the half-blown Hower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, 
was infiriitfrly ni'jre beaiitilul and eh-gant than the upright stub of a 
burdock, atifl that from sonurthing innate and inflejiendent oi all associ- 
ations of ifleas ; — these I harl set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, 
until jjerusing your book sliook my faith. In sliort. Sir, except KuflifPs 
" I'Jements of (Geometry," which I made a shift to unravel by my fatlier's 
firesifle, in the winter evenings of the first season I held the pl(»ugli, I 
never read a book which gave me such a quantum of information, and 
added so much to my stock of ideas, as yf>ur " lus.says on the Principles 
of 'laste." (Jne tlung. Sir, you must forgive my mentioning as an 
uncommon merit in the wrjrk — I mean the language. To clothe abstract 
j>hilf)sophy in elerance of style sounds something like a contradiction in 
terms; but you have convinced me that they are f|uite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one 
in print i.s my first essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am. Sir, &c., 

R. 15. 

No. CCXXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Elusland, 28M January, 1791. 

I no not know, Sir, whether you arc a subscriber to flrose's " Anticiuities 
of Scotland." If you are, the enclosid poem will not be altogether new to 
you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a dozen copies of the 



49° THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



oroof sheet, of ^Yhich this is one. Should you have read the piece before, 
still this will answer the principal end 1 have in view : it will give me 
another opportunity of thanking \ou for all vour goodness to the rustic 
b;u-d : and also of showing you. that the abilities you have been pleased 
to commend and patronize are still employed in the way you wish. 

The " Klegy on Captain Henderson "' is a tribute to the memory of a man 
1 loved much. I'oets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics ; 
they can lie of service to their friends after they have passed that bourne 
where all other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all. either 
the one or the other be of any real service to the dead is, 1 fear, \ery prob- 
lematical ; but I am sure they are highly gratifying to the living: and as 
a very orthodox te.xt, I forget where, in Scripture says, "Whatsoever is 
not of faith is sin,'' so say I, Whatsoever is not detrimental to society, and 
is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the Giver of all good things, and ought 
to be received and enjoyed by His creatures with thankful delight. As 
almost all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully 
pleased with the idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with 
the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress, who i.s 
gone to tiie world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy's 
" Reliqucs of English Poetry." By the wav. how nuich is every honest 
heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your 
glorious story of Buchanan and Targe ! "Twas an unequivocal proof of 
your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. 1 should have been 
mortified to the ground if you had not.' 

I have just read over, once more of many times, your " Zeluco." I 
marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that jileased me 
particularly above the rest ; and one or two, I think, which, with humble 
deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the book. I 
have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or at least 
so much of them as to point where they are, and send them to you. 
Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart is )our and Field- 
ing's province, beyond anv other novelist I have ever perused. Richard- 
son, indeed, might perhaps be excepted ; but, iuihap|)ily, his dravtatis 
persoiice are beings of another world ; and however they may captivate 
the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in 
proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our 
riper years. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before 
the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the 
list of Excise as a supervisor, I am not yet employed as such, but in a few 
years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I have had 
an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn. the patron from 
whom all my tame and fortune took its rise. Independent of my grateful 
attachment to him, which was indeed so strong that it pervaded my very 
soul, and was entwined with the thread of my existence, so soon as the 

* Targe, representing the Cavniier Hia;hland spirit, overcomes Buchanan, reprec£ating the 
colder Lowland feeling in a quarrel about Queen Mary. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 49 1 



Prince's friends had got in (and every dog, you know, has his day), my get- 
ting forward in the li^xcise would have been an easier business than other- 
wise it will Ije. Though this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, 
yet, thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as 1 am; and as to my boys, 
poor little fellows! if I cannot place them on as high an elevation in life 
as I could wish, 1 shall, if 1 am favoured so much of the Disposer of 
events as to see that period, fix them on as broad and independent a 
basis as possible. Among the many wise adages which have been 
treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, tliis is one of the best, Heller be lA.e 
head (>' the cuntinoiudly than the tail (>' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject which, however interesting to me, is of no 
manner of conseciuence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem on the 
other ]jage, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the 
honour to be, 

Yours, &c., 

R. B. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very 
young lady, whom I had formerly characterized under ihe denomination 
of 'J 'he Rose-bnU. 

No. CCXXV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

Elusi-and, i-zth March 1791. 

If the foregoing piece' be worth your strictures, let me have them. For 
my own part, a thing that I have just comp(jsed always appears through 
a douljle portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever view 
his own works. I believe, in general, novelty has something in it that 
inebriates the fancy, and not unfrecjuently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor jjatient, as usual, with an aching 
heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced in the revolution of 
many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into stupid prose, and sc 
sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the 
page in my own way, and give you another song of my late composition, 
which will appear perhaps in Johnson's work, as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, " There'll never be peace till 
Jamie comes hame." When i)olitical combustion ceases to be the object 
of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of 
historians and poets. 

" By yon castle wa' at the close of the day 
I heard .T man sini^, tho' liis head ii was ijray: 
And as he was sineine, the tears fait down came — 
'there'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame." 

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot imagine, 
my clear friend, how much you would oblige me, if, by the charms of your 

' By this burns means the annexed verses, " By yon castle wa'." 



493 THE LETTERS OF BURNS, 



delightful voice, you wouUl give me b.onest effusion to '• the memory of joys 
tliat are passed " to the tew triouds \vhon\ you iniuilge in that pleasure. 
lUit I have scribbled ou till 1 liear tiie clock has intimated the ne.ir 
approach of 

" That hour, 'i' night's bhwk Aivh the kcy-st.mc." 

So good-i.ight to you I Souml be your sleep, and delectable ytnir dreams \ 
Apro^osy how do vou liice this thousiht in a ballail 1 have just no-v on the 
(tipisf — 

" I Kvik to the west when 1 i;;>c to rest, 

That h.»ppy n\y itretms .tiut my sUnubers uuty be : 
Far, f,>r in the west is l>e I lo'e lv:st, 

The Ltd th;«l is vtc.ir to my b;tbic and lue." 

Good-night, once more, and vJod bless you I — R. B. 



No. CCXWI. 
TO MR. AIKXAXniR DAiyKl., 

KACl'OK, KlNni.AYSTClN. 

[The poem was on the recent death of Lord tllencaini. t'or whom Mr. IXil/el 
had acted as factor.] 

Mv m-IAtv Sir, Ki.t.isi-\ND, 19/* .IA»»rA, i7gt. 

I have taken the liberty to tVank this letter to you. as it encloses an 
idle poem oi mine, which I send ymi ; ami. Ciod knows, you may perhaps 
pav dear enough for it if you read it through. Not that this is my own 
opinion ; but the author, by the time he has composed and corrected 
his work, has quite pored away all his powers of critical discrimina- 
tion. 

I can easily guess from mv own heart wliat you have felt on a l.ue most 
melancholv event. Coil knows what 1 h.ue sutVercil at the loss of my 
best friend, mv first and dearest patron and benefactor; the man to whom 
I owe all that I am and h.ive ! 1 am gone into mourning for him. and with 
more sinceritv of grief ihr.n 1 fear some will, who by nature's ties ought to 
feel on the occasion. 

1 will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed, to let me know the news of 
the noble family — how the poor mother and the two sisters support their 
loss. I had a ]iacket of jioetic bagatelles ready to senil to Laily Uctty, 
when I saw the fatal tidings in the newspaper. 1 see by the same channel 
that the honoured remains of my noble jutron are designed to be 
brought to the family burial-]ilace. Dare 1 trouble you to let me know 
privately before the day of interment, that I may cross the country, and 
steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my ever-revered 
benefactor? It will oblige me beyond expression. — R. B. 



77//'. / /■■/rrr.h": (>/■ /u/a-ns. 493 

N'>. rrxxvir. 

TO MRS. OKAIIAM, 

Ol' MNIKV. 

[To Mrs. firaham the Poet aflerwarfls {)re»cnte'l the new cflition of his poems, 
w:!h these chaiar.lcristic weirds written on one of iJie blank leaves: "It is \n<>\)- 
ahle, Madam, that this paj^e may he read, when the hand that now writes it shall 
he nioulderin;( in the dust. .May it then hear witness, that 1 ];resenl you these 
volitiues as a trihiile of ;;ralilude, on my part ardent and sincere, as your and .\1r. 
(iraliiiin's ^^oodness to nii- h.JS l)c<:n generous and nohle I .May ev<;ry i;hild <if 
yours, in the hour of need, find such a friend as I shall teach every child of mine 
that their father founcl in you. — Kouv.KV 1Ji;kns."J 

MaIM.M, F.i.usi.a;(o, .791. 

Whether it is that the .slrjry of our Mary Queen of S< ol.s has a 
jK;(iili,ir effect on th;; feeliiif^s of ;i jjoel, or whether I have in the enclosed 
(jillad succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not; but it ha.s 
pleased me beyond any eriorl of my muse for a good while past: on that 
account I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, the purity of rny 
motives m.iy be suspcct<;fl. I am already deeply indebted to Mr. Graham's 
goodness; anfl what, /// t/ie usual ways of men, is of infmitely greater im- 
portance, Mr. (i. can do me service of tin,- utmost im|K>rlance in time to 
c(jme. I was born a poor dog ; and however I may occasionally |;ick a 
better bone than \ used to do, 1 know I must Hve and die pf jor : but 1 will 
indulge the fl.itt'M'ing faith that my j^oetry will considerably outlive my 
poverty; and without any fustian aflecUition of sjjirit. I can proinisc and 
affirm, that it must be no ordinary craving of the latter shall ever make 
me do anything injurious to the honest fame of the fonrier. Whatever 
may be my f.iilings, for failings are a part of huinan nature, may they ever 
be lh(jsc of a generous heart and an independent mind! It is no fault of 
mine that I was born I0 dependence ; nor is it Mr. Ciraham's chicfest praise 
that' he can com nand influence: but it is his merit to bestow, not only 
with the kindn-ss of a Ijrothcr, but with the politeness of a gentleman; 
and I trust it shall be mine, to receive wi'h thankfulness and remember 
with undiminished gratitude. — K. li. 

No. fJCXXVIlI. 

TO TUL ktV. G. BAIRD. 

[This is an answer to an a|)|)iication to revise the ))oems of Michael T'ruce, and 
to :id(l some vrrses of his o»vn to an edition which was al>out to lie published for 
the henelit of Urux-'s mother, ihcti H'j years of w^k, j^oor and helpless.] 

REViJkfcND SiK, Elusuawu, ly^i. 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a hesitating style on 
the business of poor Jiruce? Don't I know, and have I not felt, the many 



494 77//? LETTERS OF BURNS. 



ills, the peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is heir to? You shall have your 
choice of all the unpublished poems I have; and had your letter had my 
direction, so as to have reached me sooner (it only came lo my hand this 
moment), I should have directly put you out of suspense on the subject. I 
only ask, that some prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as the 
subscription bills, may bear, that the publication is solely for the benefit 
of Bruce's mother. 1 would not put it in the power of ignorance to 
surmise, or malice co insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work from 
mercenary motives. Nor need you give me credit for any remarkable 
generosity in my part of the business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, 
failings, follies, and backslidings (anybody but my.self might perhaps give 
some of them a worse appellation), that by way of some balance, however 
trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very 
limited power to a fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose o/" clearing a 
little the vista of retrospection. — R. B. 



No. CCXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, wih April, 1791. 

I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to. return you, with my own 
hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and particularly 
for your kind an.xiety in this last disaster that my evil genius had in store 
for me. However, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for on Saturday 
morning last Mrs. Burns made me a present of a fine boy; rather stouter 
but not so handsome as )our godson was at his time of life. Indeed I 
look on your little namesake to be my clief d'cEiivre in that species of 
manufacture, as I look on " Tarn o' Shanter " to be my standard performance 
in the poetical line. 'Tis true, both the one and the other discover a 
spice of roguish waggery that might perhaps be as well spared; but then 
they also show, in my opinion, a force of genius and a finishing poli;;h 
that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and 
laid as lustily about her to-day at breakfast as a reaper from the corn-ridge. 
That is the peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels, 
that are bred among the hay and heather. We cannot hope for that 
highly polished mind, that charming delicacy of soul, which is found 
among the female world in the more elevated stations of life, and which is 
certainly by far the most bewitching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. 
It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that, where it can be had in its 
native heavenly purity, unstained by some one or other of the many shades 
of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the many species 
of caprice, I declare to Heaven I should think it cheaply purchased at 
the expense of every other earthly good ! But as this angelic creature is, 
I am afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and totally 
denied to such an humble one as mine, we meaner mortals must put up 
with the next rank of female excellence. As fine a figure and face we can 
produce as any rank of life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; unaffected 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 495 



modesty and unsullied purity ; nature's mother-wit and the rudiments of 
taste; a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted with, 
the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenuous world ; and, the 
dearest charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition and a 
generous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part and ardently 
glowing with a more than equal return ; these, with a healthy frame, a 
sound, vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can scarcely ever 
hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk 
of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me 
hear, by first post, how cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small-pox. 
May Almighty Goodness preserve and restore him ! — R. B. 



No. CCXXX. 
TO 



Dear Sir, Ellisland, 1790. 

I am exceedingly to blame in not writing you long ago; but the 
truth is, that I am the most indolent of all human beings ; and when I 
matriculate in the herald's office, I intend that my supporters shall be two 
sloths, my crest a slow-worm, and the motto, " Deil tak' the foremost." 
So much by way of. apology for not thanking you sooner for your kind 
execution of my commission. — R. B. 



No. CCXXXI. 

TO 

[This tremendous scolding is supposed to have been sent to a snarling critic 
who had complained of the false grammar and uncouthness of Burns's poems.] 

Ellisland, 1791. 
Thou eunuch of language : thou Englishman, who never was south the 
Tweed : thou servile echo of fashionable barbarisms : thou quack, vend- 
ing the nostrums of empirical elocution: thou marriage-maker between 
vowels and consonants, on the (iretna-green of caprice : thou cobbler, 
botching the flimsy socks of bombast oratory: thou blacksmith, hammer- 
ing the rivets of absurdity : thou butcher, embruing thy hands in the 
bowels of orthography : thou arch-heretic in pronunciation : thou pitch- 
pipe of affected emphasis : thou carpenter, mortising the awkward joints 
of jarring sentences : thou squeaking dissonance of cadence : thou pimp of 
gender: thou Lyon Herald to silly etymology: thou antipode of gram- 
mar : thou executioner of construction : thou brood of the speech-dis- 
tracting builders of the Tower of Babel ; thou lingual confusion worse 
confounded : thou scape-gallows from the land of syntax : thou scavenger 
of mode and tense : thou murderous accoucheur of infant learning : thou 
ignis fatitiis, misleading the steps of benighted ignorance : thou pickle- 



496 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

herring in the puppet-show of nonsense : thou faithful recorder of bar- 
barous idiom : thou persecutor of syllabication : thou baleful meteor, 
foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach of Nox and Erebus. — R. B. 



No. CCXXXII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

will June, 1791. 

Let me interest 30U, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman 
who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, principal 
schoolmaster there, and is at present .suffering severely under the perse- 
cution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is ac- 
cused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. Ciod help 
the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend 
Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists 
on lighting up tiie rays of science in a fellow's head whose skull is imper- 
vious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a 
cudgel, a fellow whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to attempt making 
a scliolar of. as he has been maiked a blockhead in the book of fate, at 
the almigiity fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat School are the ministers, magistrates, and town- 
council of Edinburgh ; and as the Ixisiness comes novy before them, let me 
beg my dearest friend to do everything in his power to serve the interests 
of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I particularly respect 
and esteem. You know some good fellows among the magistracy and 
council, but particularly you have much to say with a reverend gentleman, 
to whom you have the honour of being very nearly rclatetl, and whom this 
country and age have had the honour to produce. I need not name the 
historian of Charles V. I tell him, through the medium of his nephew's 
influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who will not disgrace even his 
patronage. I know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, that 
ray friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. 

(}od help the children of dependence ! Hated and persecuted by 
their enemies, and too often, alas! almost unexceptionably, received by 
their friends with disres|)ect and reproach, under the thin di.sguisc of cold 
civility and humiliating advice. Oh, to be a sturdy savage, stalking in 
the pride of his independence amid the solitary wilds of his deserts, 
rather than, in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, pre- 
carious as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Everyman has his virtues, and 
no man is without his failings; and curse on that privileged plain-dealing 
of friendship wiiich in the hour of my calamity cannot reach, forth the 
heli)ing hand, without at the same time pointing out tho.se failings, and 
aoDortioning them their share in procuring my present distress. My 
friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, 
pass by my virtues if you please,' but do, also, spare my follies :_ the first 
will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last will give pain enough 
to the ingenuous' mind without you. And since deviating more or less 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 497 

f'-om the paths of propriety and rectitude must lie incident to human 
nature, do thou, Fortuae, put it in my power, always from myself, and of 
iTiyself, to bear the coasecjuences of those errors! I do not want to be 
indej)endent that I may sin, but 1 wait to be independent in my sinning. 

To return in this rambling L'tter to the subject I set out with, let me 
/ecommend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good offices; 
his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the other. 
I long much to hear from you. Adieu! — R. B. 

Nf). CCXXXIII. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCIIAN. 

[Lord Brchaa had projected a fete in honour of the poet Thomson, including 
tlie opcnin^ of a temple to his memory on Ednam Mill.] 

My Lord, Ei.usland, 1791. 

Language sinks under the ardour of my feelings when I would 
thank your lordship for the honour you have done me in inviting me to 
make one at the coronation of the bust of Tliomson. In my first enthu- 
.siasm in reading the card you did me the honour to write me, 1 over- 
looked every obstacle, anrl determined to go; but I fear it will not be in 
my power. A week or two's absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is 
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I once already made a pil- 
grimage up the whole course of the Tweed, and fondly would I take the 
same deliglitful journey down the windings of that delightful stream. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion : but wlio would write 
after Collins? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and 
despaired. I got indeed to the length of three or four stanzas, in the way 
of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall trouble 
your lordship with the subjoined cojjy of them, which, I am afraid, will be 
but too convincing a jjroof how unequal I am to the task. However, it 
affords me an oj^iJortunity of approaching your lordship, and dechiring 
how^sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to be, &c. — R. B. 

[Here follows the poem, for which see page 97.] 

No. CCXXXIV. 
TO MR. T^O^L\S SLOAN. 
My dear Sloan, Elmsland, .9^//. 1,1791. 

Suspense is worse than disappointment; for that reason I hurry 
to tell you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantine does not choose to 
interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot help it. 
You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to 
recollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of information -- 
your address. 

However, you know equally well my hurried life, indolent temper, 
and s';rength of aUachment. It inust be a longer period than the longest 



498 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

life " in the world's hale and undegenerate days," that will make nie 
fori:^t so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. 1 am prodig;il enough at times, but 
I will not part with such a treasure as that. 

1 can easily enter into the tmbanas of your present situation. You 
know my favourite quotation from Young — 

" On Reason buiUl Resolve, 

Thai column of true majesty in man." 

And that other favourite one from Thomson's Alfred — 

" What prx'ives the herii truly <.;kkat 
Is, ne\-er, never, to despair." 

Or, shall 1 quote you an author of your acquaintance? 

■" Whether ixmnc;, sfFFERtNC, or forbk.*king. 



You may do miracles by — veksevekinr. 

I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are going 
on in the oitl way. 1 sold my crop on thi.i day, se'ennight, and sold it 
very well: a ciiinea an acre, on an average, above value. Rut such a 
scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the 
roup was over, about thirty people engaged in battle, every man for liis 
own hand, and fought it out for throe hours. Nor was tlie scene much 
better in the house. No righting, indeeil, but folks lying drunk on the 
floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so. drunk by attending them, 
that they could not stand. You will easily guess how I enjo\ed the 
scene ; as 1 was no farther over than you used to see me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks. 

Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear friend ! — R. B. 



No. CCXXXV. 

TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

MV L.AOY. 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your good- 
ness has allowed me. of sending you anytliing I compose in my poetical 
wav : but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of my irreparable loss 
would allow me. to pay a tribute to my late benefactor. 1 determined to make 
that the rirst piece I should do myself the honour of sending you. Had 
the wing of mv tancv been equal to the ardour of my heart, the enclosed 
had been much more worthy )our perusal : as it is. i beg leave to lay it 
at your ladyship's feet. As all the world knows my obligatixins to the 
late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish to show as openly that my heart 
glows, and shall ever glow, with the most grateful sense and remem- 
brance of his lordship's goodness. The sables I did my.self the honour 
to wear to his lordship's memory were not the "mockery of woe." Nor 
shall mv gratitude perish with me ! If. among my children, I shall have 
a son that has a heart, he shall hand it down to his cliikl as a family 



yiJE LET-J'KRS OF BURN u 499 

honour, and a family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the noble 
house of CJlencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may venture to 
see the light, I would, in some way or other, give it to the world. — R. B. 



No. CCXXXVI. 

TO MR. AINSLIE. 

Mv DEAR AiNSLIE, F.lusi.akd, ^t)\. 

Can you minister to a mind diseased? Can you, amid the horrors 
of penitence, regret, remorse, headache, nausea, and all the rest of the 
d — ■ — d hounds of Iiell that beset a poor wretch who has been guilty of the 
sin of drunkenness — can you speak peace to a troubled soul? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried everything that used to amuse 
me, but in vain : here must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid up in 
store for the wicked, slowly counting every chick of the clock as it slowly, 
slowly, numbers over the.se lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n them ! are 
ranked up before me, every one at his neighbcifs backside, and every 
one with a burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my devoted head — 
and there is none to pity me. My wife scolds nie, my business torments 
me, and my sins come staring me in the face, every one telling a more 
bitter tale than his fellow. When I tell you even . , . has lost its 
power to please, you will gue.ss something of my hell within, and all 
around me. I began " Elil)anks and Eliljraes,'' but the stanzas fell un- 
enjoyed and unfinished from my listless toiigue : at last I luckily thought 
of reading over an old letter of yours, that lay by me, in my bookcase, 
and I felt something, for the first time since I opened my eyes, of pleasur- 
able existence. Well — I begin to breathe a little, since 1 began to write 

to you. How are you, and what are you doing? How goes law? 
Apropos, for connexion's .sake do not address to xi.^t supervisor, for that is 
an honour I cannot pretend to: 1 am on the list, as we call it, for a 
supervisor, and will Ije called out by and by to act as one \ but at 
jjresent I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day I got an appointment to 
an Excise division of 25/. per annum better than the rest. My present 
income, down money, is 70/. per annum. 

I have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad to know. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXXVII. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible. Madam, that the generous warmth and angelic purity 
of your youthful mind can have any idea of that moral disease under 
which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners: I mean a torpitude 
of the moral powers, that may be called a lethargy of couscience. In 



500 TI/E LETTERS OF BUJiNS. 



vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes : beneath 
the dcaclly-lixfd eye and leaden hand of Indolence their wildest ire is 
cliarniod into the lorper of the hat, slumbering out the rigours of winter 
in the chink of a ruined wall. Nt)thing less, Madam, could have made 
me so long neglect your obliging commands. Inilocd, I had one apology 
— the bagatelle was not worth presenting, iiesitles, so strongly am I 
interested in Miss Davies's tate and weltare in the serious business of life, 
amid its chances and changes, that to make her the subject of a silly 
ballad is downright mockery of these ardent feelings ; 'tis like m imperti- 
nent jest to a d} ing friend. 

firacious hea\en ! why this disparity between our wishes and our 
powers? Why is the most generous wish to make others blest imi)otent 
and ineffectual, as the idle breeze that crosses the pathless desert ? In 
my walks of life I have met with a few people to whom how gladl)- would 
I have said: "Go, be happy! I know that your hearts have been wounded 
by the scorn of the proud, whom accident has placed above you — or, 
worse still, in whose hands are, perhaps, placed many of tiie comforts of 
your life. lUit there! ascend that rock. Independence, and look justly 
down on their littleness of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your 
indignation, and the tbolish sink before your contempt ; and largely impart 
that happiness to others, whicli 1 am certain will give yourselves so much 
pleasure tt> bestow." 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and find it 
all a dream? Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must 1 find myself 
poor and powerless, incapable ot wiping one tear fiom the eye of pity, or 
of adding one comfort to the friend 1 love? Out upon the world, say I, 
that its aifairs are administered so ill ! They talk of reform : good I Jeaven ! 
what a reform would I make among the .sons, and even the daughters, of 
men ! Down, immediately, should go fools from the high places where 
misbegotten chance has perked them up, and through life should they 
skulk, ever haunted by their native insignificance, as the bod)- marches 
accomjianied by its shadow. As for a much more formidable class, the 
knaves, I am at a loss what to do with them : had I a world, there should 
not be a knave in it. 

l)Ut the hand that could give, I would liberally fill : and I would 
pour delight on the h.>art that could kindly forgive and generously 
love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are among men comparatively tolerable ; 
but there is a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in which 
we can place lovely woman, that are grated and shocked at the rude, 
capricious distinctions of Fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of life : let 
the>-<; be slight degrees of precedency among them — but let them be 
all sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not 
accounlable ; it is an original component ieature of my mind. 

R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 501 



No. ccxxxviir. 

SVI.VANDKR TO CI.AklNhA. 

[I'urns had been lo Ivlinliurj^li at llic end of Nov<riiil)fr and hfj^iiininf^ of 
r)eccMnl)i:r, and liad tlierc seen Mrs. M'Leliosc. She had resf)lv(!d \.u {^(j to her 
worthless Init repentant husband in Jamaica, and sailed in l''ei)ruary, 1792.] 

I iiAVF, received both your last Ictlcr.s, Madam, and ought and would 
have answered the lirst long ago. liut on what subject shall 1 write 
you? How can you exj)ect a corresijondent shouUl write you when you 
declare that you mean to i^reserve his letters, with a view, sooner or later, 
to exjwse them in the jjiilory of derision and tiie rock of criticism? This 
is gagging me completely as to speaking the sentiments of my bo.som ; 
else, Madam, I could jjerhaps too truly — 

"Join uricf with grief, and echo sighs to thine! " 

I have perused your most beautiful but most pathetic poem ; do not ask 
me how often, or with what emotions. You know tliat " I dare to sin, 
but not to //^. " Your verses wring the confession from my inmost soul, 
that — 1 will say it, exi)Ose it if you please — that I have more than once in 
my life been the victim of a damning conjuncture of circumstances; and 
that to see you must Ije ever — 

" I)c.ir .-IS the light that visits these sail eyes." 

I \\iv^ just, since I had yours, composed the following stanzas. Let me 
know your opinion of them. 

[Here are transcribed tlie lines beginning, " Sweet Sensil)ility, Ikjw charming," &c.] 

No. CCXXXIX. 
TO CLAKINDA. 
[Enclosing the " Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots," I'>urns wrote as follows : — ] 

I,KAi)mi,[,s, Thursday Noon {Dec. 11, 1791]. 

.SLrcM,.my dearest Clarinda, were the words of the amiable i;ut un- 
fortunate Mary. Misfortune seems to take a jjeculiar pleasure in darting 
her arrows against " honest men and bonny lasses. " Of this you are too, 
too just a proof ; i)iit may your future be a bright exception to the remark. 
In the words of Hamlet — 

" Adieu, adieu, adieu! Kemeinber mc." 

Sylvanijek. 

No. CCXL. 
TO CLARINDA. 

iJi-'MFKiES (15M December (?), 1791]. 

I HAVK some merit, my ever dearest of women, in attracting and 
securing the honest heart of Clarinda. In her 1 meet with the most 



502 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



accomplished of all womankind, the first of all God's works, and yet I, 
even 1, have the good fortune to appear amiable in her sight. 

By the by, this is the sixth letter that I have written since I left you ; 
and if you were an ordinary being, as you are a creature very extraordinary 
— an instance of what God Almighty, in the plenitude of His power and 
the fulness of His goodness can make ! — I would never forgive you for not 
answering my letters. 

I have sent your hair, a part of the parcel you gave me, with a measure, 
to Mr. Brice, the jeweller, to get a ring done for me. I have likewise 
sent in the verses " On Sensibility," altered to — 

" Sensibility, how charming, 
Dearest Nancy, thou can tell," &c., 

to the editor of " Scots Songs," of which you have three volumes, to set 
to a most beautiful air — out of compliment to the first of women, my 
ever-beloved, my ever-sacred Clarinda. I shall probably write you to- 
morrow. In the meantime, from a man who is literally drunk accept and 
forgive ! — R. B. 



No. CCXLI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \^th December, 1791. 

Many thanks to you. Madam, for your good news respecting the little 
floweret and the mothc-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have been 
heard, and will be answered up to the warmest sincerity of their fullest 
extent; and then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the representative 
of his late parent, in everything but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which to a lady, the descendant 
of Wallace, and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herself the 
mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology: — 

" Scene— A Field of Battle. Time of the Day— Evening. The wounded and dying of the 
victorious army are supposed to join in the following 

Song of Death. 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies 

Now gay with the broad setting sun: 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties — 

Our race of existence is run! " — &c. 

The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing verses was, looking 
over with a musical friend McDonald's collection of Highland airs, I was 
struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled " Oran an Aoig; or, the 
Song of Death," to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas. I 
have of late composed two or three other little pieces, which, ere yon full- 
orbed moon, whose broad impudent face now stares at old mother earth 
all night, shall have shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping forth at 
dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribe for you. A Dieu je vous 
commende. — R. B. 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 503 

No. CCXLII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 



[This letter introduces Mrs. Riddel to Smellie, the self-taught scholar and 
naturalist.] 

Dumfries, 22^ Jatuiat-y, 1793. 

I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady to you. and a lady 
in the first ranks of fashion, too. What a task ! to you — who care no 
more for the herd of animals called young ladies, than you do for the herd 
of animals called young gentlemen. To you — who despise and detest the 
groupings and combinations of Fashion, as an idiot painter that seems 
industrious to place staring fools and unprincipled knaves in the foreground 
of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too often thrown in 
the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who will take this letter to town with 
her, and send it to you, is a character that, even in your own way, as a 
naturaUst and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. 
The lady, too, is a votary to the Muses; and as 1 think myself somewhat 
of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that her verses, always correct 
and often elegant, are much be}-ond the common run of the lady poetesses 
of the day. She is a great admirer of your book ; and, hearing me say 
that I was acquainted with you, she begged to be known to you, as she 
is just going to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. ' I told her 
that her best way was, to desire her near relation, and your intimate friend, 
Craigdarroch, to have you at his house while she was there ; and lest you 
might think of a hvely West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen 
too often deserve to be thought of, I should take care to remove that preju- 
dice. To be impartial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, she 
has one unlucky failing ; a failing which you will easily discover, as she 
seems rather pleased in indulging in it', and a failing that you will 
pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself: — where she 
dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of it than where 
she esteenis and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning coinpliineiits of the season. 
but I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that 
Fortune may never throw your subsistence to the mercy of a knave, or 
set your character on the judgment of a fool ; but that, upright and 
erect, you may walk to an honest grave, where men of letters shall say. 
Here lies a man who did honour to science, and men of worth shall 
say. Here lies a man who did honour to human nature. — R. B. 

No. CCXLIII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

My dear Friend, Dumfries, sM Feb., 1792. 

I send you by the bearer, Mr. Clarke, a particular friend of mines 

six pounds and a shillings which you will dispose of as follows: — five 



504 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

pounds ten shillings, per account, I owe Mr. R. Burn, architect, for erecting 
the stone over the grave of poor Fergusson. He was two years in erecting 
it after 1 had commissioned him for it, and I have been two years in 
paying him after he sent me his account ; so he and I are quits. He had 
the Iia7-diesse. to ask the interest on the sum ; but considering that the 
money was ckie l)y one poet for putting a tombstone over another, he may, 
with grateful surprise thank Heaven that he ever saw a farthing of it. 

With the remainder of the money pay yourself for the "Office of a 
Messenger " that I bought of you ; and send me by Mr. Clarke a note of 
its price. Send me likewise the fifth vol. of the "Observer" by Mr. 
Clarke ; and if any money remains, let it stand to account. 

1 sent you a maukin [hare] by last week's fly, which I hope you received. 

R. B. 

No. CCXLIV. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

[This is an ironical reply to a letter containing (according to Dr. Currie) good 
advice.] 

20M February. 

O THOU, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon 
of discretion, and chief of many counsellors! How infinitely is thy 
puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indel^ted 
to thy supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own 
right-lined rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of 
wliom the zigzag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the 
simple copulation of units up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, 
straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, 
may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and 
favour of that father of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipode of 
folly, and magnet among sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen! 
Amen ! Yea, so be it ! 

For me, I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing ! From the cave of 
my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dullness, and pestilential fumes of my 
])oiitical heresies, I look up to thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon to the cloudless glory of a summer .sun ! 
Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, when shall my name be the 
quotation of the wise, and my countenance be the delight of the godly, 
like the illustrious lord of Laggan''s many hills? As for him, his works 
are perfect : never did the pen of calumny blur the fair page of his reputa- 
tion, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine lamp of my glimmerous 
understanding, purged from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine like 
the constellation of thy intellectual powers? As for thee, thy thoughts 
aie pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath of the 
jjowers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame 
of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound desires : never did the vajiours of 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 505 



impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. O that 
like thine were the tenor ot" my lite, like thine the tenor of my conversation ! 
Then should no iViend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my weak- 
ness. Then should I lie down and rise up, and none to make me afraid. 
May thy pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and 
minor of morahty ! thy devoted slave. — R. B. 



No. CCXLV. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. 
Sir, Dumfries, 1792. 

I believe among all our Scots literati you have not met with PrO' 
fessor Dugakl Stewart, who fills the Moral Philosophy chair in the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh. To say that he is a man of the first parts, and, what is 
more, a man of the first worth, to a gentleman of yotw general acquaint 
ance, and who so much enjo\s the luxury of unencumbered freedom and 
undisturbed privacy, is not perhaps recommendation enough : but when 
I inform you that Mr. Stewart's principal characteristic is your favourite 
feature — that sterling independence of mind which, though every man's 
right, so few men have the courage to claim, and fewer still the mag- 
nanimity to support ; when I tell you, that unseduced bv splendour, and 
undisgusted by wretchedness, he appreciates the merits of the various 
actors in the great drama of life merely as they pertbrm their parts ; — in 
short, he is a man after your own heart, and I comply with his earnest 
request in letting you know that he wishes above all things to meet with 
you. His house, Catrine, is within less than a mile of Sorn Castle, which 
you proposed visiting ; or if you could transmit him the enclosed, he 
would, with the greatest pleasure, meet you anywhere in the neighbour- 
hood. I write to Ayrshire to inform Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted 
myself of my promise. Should your time and spirits permit your meeting 
with Mr. Stewart, 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will forgive this liberty : and 
I have at least an opportunity of assuring you with what truth and respect, 

I am. Sir, 

Your great Admirer 

And very humble Servant, 

R. B.i 

' Another letter to Capt. Grose, giving the legends of Alloway Kirk, will be found in the notes 
to the poem. 



No. CCXLVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, i^d August, 1792. 

Do not blame me for it. Madam ; my own conscience, hackneyed 
and weather-beaten as it is in watching and reproving my vagaries, 
follies, indolence, &c., has continued to punish me sufficiently. . . . 



5 06 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I could be 
so lost to gratitude for many favours, to esteem for much worth, and to 
the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, old acquaintance, and I hope 
and I am sure of progressive, increasing friendship, as for a single day 
not to think of you, to ask the Fates what they are doing and about to do 
with my nuich-loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, and to 
beg of tiiem to be as kind to you and yours as they possibly can? 

Apropos (though how it is apropos I have not leisure to explain), 
do you know that 1 am almost in love with an acquaintance of yours? — 
Almost! said 1? — I am in love; souse! over head and ears, deep as the 
most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean : but the word Love, 
owning to the intcriniiii^^lcdoiiis of the good and the bad, tlie pure and the 
impure, in this world, being rather an equivocal term for expressing one's 
sentiments and sensations, I must do justice to the sacred purity of my 
attachment. Know, then, that the heart-struck awe ; the distant, humble 
approach , the delight we should have in gazing ujxmi and listening to a 
Messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity of his celes- 
tial home among tiie coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver 
to them tidingsthat make their hearts swim in joy and their imaginations 
soar in transport — such, so delighting and so pure, were the emotions of 
my soul on meeting the other day with IVIiss Lesley Baillie, your neigh- 
bour, at M . Mr. B. with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. 

of C, passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to England, 
did me the honour of calling on me; on which I took my horse (though 
(SiO^X knows I could ill spare the time), and accompanied them fourteen o.- 
fifteen miles, and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas about nine, 
i think, when I left them, and. riding home, 1 composed the following 
ballad, of which you will probably think you have a dear bargain, as it 
will cost you another groat of postage. Vou must know that there is an 
old ballad bejiinning with — 



ly bonn 
"11 rowe 



thcc in my plaidie," — &c. 



So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first copy, " unanointed, 
unanneal'd," as Hamlet says : — 

" O saw yo bonnie Lesley, 

As she gacd o'er the border? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther." 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east country, as 
I am to be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, notwith- 
standing it has many good things in it, yet it has ever had this curse, that 
two or three people, who would be the hai)pier the oftener they met toge- 
ther, are, almost without exception, always so placed as never to meet but 
once or twice a year; which, considering the few years of a man's life, is a 
very gieat " evil under the sun," which 1 do not recollect that Solomon has 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and believe 
that there is a state of existence beyond the grave, where the worthy of 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 507 

this life will renew their former intimacies, with this endearing addition, 
that " we meet to pan no more !" . . . 

" Tell us, yc (lend; 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
What 'tis you are, and wc must shortly be? " 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of 
men, but not one of them has ever thou<;ht tit to answer the question. 
" O that some courteous ghost would blah it out ! " but it cannot be ; you 
and I, my friend, must make the experiment by ourselves, and for our- 
selves. However, I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in the doc- 
trines of religion is not only necessary, by making us better men, but also 
by making us hapi)ier men. that I sliould take every care that your little 
godson, and every little creature that shall call me father, shall be taught 
them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild place of the 
world, in the intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. — R. B. 



No. CCXLVIT. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, loih Scf>tevibcr, 1792.. 

No! I will not attempt an apology. Amid all my hurry of business, 
grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels 
of the Excise; making ballads, and then drinking, and singing them; 
and, over and above all, the correcting the press-work of two different 
publications; still, still 1 might have stolen live minutes to dedicate to one 
of the first of my friends and fellow-creatures. I might have clone, as I do 
at present, snatched an hour near " witching time of night," and scrawled 
a page or two. I might have congratulated my friend on his marriage ; 
or I might have thanked the Caledonian archers for the honour they have 
done me (though, to do myself justice, I intended to have done both in 
rhyme; else I had done both long ere now). Well, then, here is to your 
good health ! for }ou must know I have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, 
just by way of spell, to keep away the meikle-horned Deil, or any of his 
subaltern imps who may be on then- nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you? "The voice said. Cry," and I said, 
" What shall I cry?" O thou spirit! whatever thou art, or wherever thou 
makest thyself visible ! — be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, 
in the dreary glen through which the herd-callan maun bicker in his gloam- 
in' route frae the faulde ! — Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy 
task by the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, where the repercussions 
of thy iron flail half affright thyself, as thou i)erformest the work of twenty 
of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon thet; to thy ample cog 
of substantial brose ! — Be thou a keljiie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the 
starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with \\\'i howling of the storm and 



5o8 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

the roaring of the flood, as thou vievvest the perils and miseries of man on 
the foundering horse, or in the tumbhng boat! — Or, lastly, be thou a 
ghost, paying thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur; 
or performing th\' mystic rites in the shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, ghastly dwellings of 
the dead around thee ; or, taking thy stand by the bedside of the \illain or 
the murderer, portraying on his dreaming fancy pictures dreadful as the 
horrors of unvei'ed hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed Deity! — 
Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid forms ; come with the milder, 
gentle, easy inspirations which thou breathest round the wig of a prating 
advocate, or the ti'te of a tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues nm at the 
light-horse gallop of clish-maclaver for ever and ever; come and assist a 
poor de\il who is quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among 
half a hundred words, to till up four quarto pages, while he has not got 
one single sentence of recollection, information, or remark worth putting 
pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural assistance! Circled in the 
embrace of my elbow chair, my breast labours, like the bloated S}bil on 
her three-footed stool, and, like her too, labours with Nonsense. — Non- 
sense, auspicious name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the mystic mazes 
of law, the cadaverous paths of physic, and particularly in the sightless 
soarings of school divinity; who — leaving Common Sense confounded at 
his strength of pinion. Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight, and 
Truth creeping back into the bottom of her well, cursing the hour that 
ever she offered her scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theologic 
Vision — raves abroad on all the winds: "On earth Discord! a gloomy 
heaven above, opening her jealous gates to the nineteen-thousandth part 
of the tithe of mankind! and below, an inescapable and inexorable hell, 
expanding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! ! " O doc- 
trine comfortable and healing to the weary, wounded soul of man ! Ye 
sons and daughters of aftliction, ye paiivrcs niiscrables, to whom day 
brings no pleasure, and night yields no rest, be comforted! " 'Tis but 
otie to nineteen hundred thousand that your situation will mend in this 
world." So, alas ! the experience of the poor and needy too often affirms ; 
and 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the dogmas of . . ., that 
you will be damned eternally in the world to come ! 

But, of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the most nonsensical ; so 
enough, and more than enough of it. Only, by the by, will you, or can 
you, tell me, my dear Cunningham, wh}' a sectarian turn of the mind has 
always a tendency to narrow and illiberalize the heart ? They are 
orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I have known them merciful ; but still 
your children of sanctity move among their fellow-creatures with a nos- 
tril snuffing putrescence and a foot spurning filth, — in short, with a con- 
ceited dignity that your titled ... or any other of your Scottish 
lordlings of seven centuries' standing display, when they accidentally mix 
among the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I remember, in my 
ploughboy days, I could not conceive it possible that a noble lord could 
be a fool, or a godly man could be a knave. How ignorant are plough- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 509 



boys ! Nay, I have since discovered that a godly woman may be a 

! — But hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum is generous Antigua ; 

so a very unfit menstruum for scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like — 1 mean really like — the married life? Ah, 
my friend, matrimony is quite a different thing from what your love-sick 
youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But marriage, we are told, is 
appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel with any of His institutions. 
I am a husband of older standing than you, and shall give you //// ideas 
of the conjugal state (en passant — you know I am no Latinist — is xvoicon- 
Jtii^al derived from jui^iim, a yoke?). Well, then, the scale of good wife- 
ship I divide into ten parts: — Goodnature, four; Good Sense, two; Wit, 
one ; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, grace- 
ful carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but that is so soon spoilt, you 
know), all these, one; as for the other qualities belonging to, or attending 
on, a wife, such as Fortune, Connexions, Education (I mean education 
extraordinary). Family Blood, &c., divide Uie two remaining degrees among 
them as you please : only remember that all these minor properties must 
be expressed h^ fractions, for there is not any one of them, in the afore- 
said scale, entitled to tiie dignity of an intci^er. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — how I lately met with Miss 
Lesley Baillie, the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world — how I 
accompanied her and her fiithcr's family fifteen miles on their journey, out 
of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works of God in such an 
unequalled display of them — how, in galloping home at n'ght, I made a 
ballad on lier, of which these two stanzas make a part — 

Thou, bonie Lesley, art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee; 
Thou, home Lesley, art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Dell he could na scathe 
Whatever wad belan-j; thee! 
' He'd look into thy bonie face 

And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

. — behold all these things are written in the chronicles of my imaginations, 
and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my 
other dear friend, at a more convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed bc>sonl-Qovc\^^?i.v^\ox\, be given 
the precious things brought forth by the sun, and the precious things 
l)rought forth by the moon, and the benignest influences of the stars, and 
the living streams which flow from the fountains of life, and by the tree of 
life, for ever and ever ! Amen. — R. B. 



5 1 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



No. CCXLVIII. 

TO MR. G. THOMSON, 

[In the autumn of 1702 Mr. d. Thom.>on of E".d:nl->urgh planned "A select 
Collection of original Scottish .Virs; to wliich are added Symphonies and Accom- 
paniments by Pleyel and Kozeluck, with characteristic. X'erses by the most esteemed 
Scottish Poets;" and as Rurns was the only [loet of that period worthy of the name, 
he was instantly applied to, to furnish verses to some airs which were not already 
supplied \\ith any, or at least with satisfactory, words.] 

Sir DuMTRiEs, i6//» Sf/'i., 179a. 

I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make 
to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small portion of abilities I have, 
strained to their utmost e.xortion by the impulse of enthusiasm. Only 
don't hurry me : " Deil tak' the hindmost " is by no means the cri lie i^ucrre 
of my muse. Will you, as 1 am inferior to none of you in enthusiastic 
attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and, since you 
request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — will you let me 
have a list of your airs, with the tirst line of the printed verses you intend 
for them, that 1 may have an opportunity of suggesting any alteration that 
may occur to me.'' Vou know 'tis in the way of my trade ; still leaving 
you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of publishers to approve or reject, ; t 
your pleasure, for your own publication. Apropos, if you are for English 
verses, there is. on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the sim- 
plicity of the balKid. or the pathos of the song, 1 can only hope to piea.se 
myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English 
verses. particularl\- the works of Scotsmen, that ha\e merit, are certainly 
very eligible. " Tweedside "' — " Ah. the poor shepherd's mournful fate ! " 
— ''Ah, Chloris! could 1 now but sit,'' &c., you cannot mend; but .such 
insipid stuff as "To Fannv foir could I impart," &c., usually .set to "The 
Mill, Mill, O!" is a disgrace to the collections in which 'it has already 
appeared, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will have the very 
.superior merit of yours. Hut more of this in the farther prosecution of 
the business, if I am called on for my strictures and amendments:— I say 
amendments ; for I will not alter except where I myself, at least, tliink that 
I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you mav tliink my .songs either above or below 
price: for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest 
enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk ot money, 
wages, fee, hire, iSic. would be downright prostitution of soul ! A proof of 
each of the songs that 1 compose or amend I shall receive as a favour. 
In the rustic phrase of the season, " Gude speed the wark !" 

I am. Sir, 
Your very humble Servant, 

R. BuRN.s, 



THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 5 1 1 

No. CCXLIX. 

TO MRS. DUM.OP. 

[Mrs. Henri, Mrs. Dunlijp's wiflowed (Inu^^hter, harl gone to France to intro- 
duce her boy to his fatlier's family, and fuund iierself in llie midst of the terriijle 
convulsi(jn of the great Kcvcjhilion.] 

DuMFRiRs, 24//; Se/'teitt/>er, 1792. 

I iiAVic this moment, my dear Madam, yours of the 23d. All your 
other kind rcproaclics, your news, &c., are out of my head when I 
read and think on Mrs. Henri's situation. Good (jod ! a heart-wounded, 
helpless young woman in a strange, foreign land, and that land convul.sed 
with every horror that can harrow the human feelings — sick — looking, 
longing for a comforter, but finding none — a mother's feelings, too ; — but 
it is too much : He who wounded (He only can), may He heal ! . . . 

I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition to his family. . . . 
I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. ''Tis, as a 
farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a cursed life! As to a laird 
farming his own property; sowing his own corn in hope, and reaping 
it, in spite of brittle weather, in gladness ; knowing that none can say unto 
him, " What dost thou? " fattening his herds ; shearing his flocks ; rejoicing 
at Christmas ; and l^egetting .sons and daughters, until he be the veneratecl, 
grey-haired leader of a little tril)c — 'tis a heavenly life ! but devil take the 
life of reaping the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when I make 
my Ayrshire visit. 1 cannot leave Mrs. B. until her nine montiis' race is 
run, which may perhaps be in three or four weeks. She. too, seems deter- 
mined to make me the patriarchal leader of a ijand. However, if Heaven 
will be so obliging as to let me have them in the proportion of three boys 
to one girl, I shall be .so much the more pleased. I hope, if I am spared 
with them, to show a .set of ijoys that will do lionour to my cares and 
name; but 1 am not equal to the task of rearing girls. ' Besides, I am 
too poor ; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, your little godson 
is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, though two years younger, 
has completely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed the mildest, 
gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a most surprising memory, and is 
quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

Your know liow readily we get into prattle upon a suljject dear to out 
heart ; you can excuse it. God bless you and yours ! — R. B. 

No. CCL. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Friday Night. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad, "Ct» 
Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" to the air, "Nannie, O!" is just. It is, 
besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad in the English language. Bu. 

1 The child proved to be a girl, born 21st November : she was named Elizabeth Riddel. 



512 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



let me remark to you. that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs 
there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric, 
style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is particularly, nay peculiarly. api:osite. For this reason, and, 
upon my honour, for this reason alone. I am of opinit)n (but. as I told you 
before, my oi)inion is yours, freely yours, to approve or reject, as you please) 
that my ballad of " Nannie, O ! " might perhaps do for one set of verses to 
the tune. Now don't let it enter into your head, that \o\\ are under any 
necessity of taking mv verses. I have long ago made \\\> my mind as to 
my own reputation in the business of authorsiiip, and have nothing to 
be pleased or offended at in your adoption or rejection of my verses. 
Though you should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased 
with your adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copv of my " Nannie, O ! " the name of the river is horribly 
prosaic. 1 will alter it : — 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." ' 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, 
but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of .syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business ; but 
I have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl free of 
postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : so, with my best compliments 
to honest Allan, Gude be \vi' ye, &c. 

Saiurday Moruin^. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, 
I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and has 
nothing of the merits of *' Ewe-bughts '' ; but it will fill up tliis page. You 
must know tliat all my earlier lo\e-songs were the breathings of ardent 
passion ; and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given 
them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps 
alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which 
was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as 
they say of wines, their race. 

[Here are inserted the verses " Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary." /Vz^v 236.] 

No. CCLI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Supposed to have been written on the death of Mrs. Henri, her daughter.] 

{^October, 1792.! 

I HAD been from home, and did not receive your letter until my return 
the other day. What shall I .say to comfort you, my much-valued, much- 
afflicted friend ! I can but grieve with you ; consolation I have none to 
offer, except that which religion holds out to the children of atiHiction. 

' Although after the date of this letter, during tho poet's life, two editions of his poems were 
published (1793 and 1794) the nuue of the river remained unaltered. 



THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 5 1 3 



Children of affliction ! — how just the expression ! and like every other 
family, they have matters among them which they hear, see, and feel in a 
serious, all-important manner, of which the world has not, nor cares to 
have, any idea. The world looks indifferently on, makes tiie passing 
remark, and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam! who would wish for many years? What is it but to 
drag existence until our joys gradually expire, and leave us in a night of 
misery: like the gloom wiiich blots out the stars one by one fnjm the 
face of night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howling 
waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from me 
again. — R. B. 

No. CCLII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, ilk December, 1792. 

I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; and, if at all possible, I 
sliall certainly, my much e.steemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at 
Dun lop House. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in this world, that we have 
reason to congratulate ourselves on accessions of happiness ! 1 have not 
]):issed half the ordinary term of an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look 
over the obituary of a newspaper that I do not see some names that I 
h ive known, and which I, and other acquaintances, little thought to meet 
with there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind 
makes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and 
shudder with apprehension for our own fate. But of how different an 
importance are the lives of different individuals ! Nay, of what im|)ortance 
is one period of the same life, more than another! A few years ago I 
coiild have laid down in the dust, "careless of the voice of the morning'''; 
and now not a few, and these most hel];less individuals, would, on losing 
me and my exertions, lose both their "staff and shield." By the way. 
th'jse helpless ones have lately got an addition ; Mrs. B. having given me 
a fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charming passage in Thomson's 
" Edward and Eleanora" : — 

" The valiant, t'n himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he re.i^nrcl \\\i> single woes?" — &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give you another from the 
same piece, peculiarly — alas ! too peculiarly — apposite, my dearMa<lam, 
your present frame of mind : — 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main? the tempest comes; 
The rough winds rage aloud; when from the helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting. — Heavens! if privileged from trial 
How cheap a tiling were virtue! " . 



5 1 4 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



I do not remeniher to have heard you mention Thomson's dramas. I 
pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my mind as rcad\- armour, 
otiensive or defensive, amid the struggle of tliis turbulent existence. Of 
these is one, a very favourite one, from his " Alfred " : — 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And olTices of life; to hic itself, 
With all its v;\iu and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you I'ormerly, as indeed, when 
.' write from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
comi)ass ot the heart, in the musical style of expression, is much more 
bounded tlian that of the imagination ; so the notes of the former are 
extremely apt to run into one another ; but in return for the paucity of its 
compass, its few notes are much more sweet. I must still give you another 
quotation, which I am almost sure I have given you before, but I cannot 
resist the temptation. The subject is religion : speaking of its importance 
to mankind, the author says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright." 

I see you are in for double postage, .so I shall e'en scribble out t'other 
sheet. W'e in this country here have many alarms of the reforming, or 
rather the republican, s])irit of your part of the kingdom. Indeed, we are 
a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, 1 am a placeman, you 
know ; a verv humble one indeed. Heaven knows, but still so much as to 
gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out without an 
interpreter. . . . 

I have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a pretty actress's 
benefit-night, I wrote an address, which I will give on the other page, 
called " The Rights of Woman " : — 

"While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things." (/'it^v hi.) 

I shall have the honour of receiving your criticisms in person at 
Dunlop. — R. B. 



No. CCLIII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Nm'emhcr %lh, \Tii. 

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your collectidn shall be 
poctrv of the first merit, I am afraid you will find' more difficulty in the 
undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in 
many of our airs, and a necessitv of adapting syllables to the emphasis, 
or what I would call the feature-notes of the tune, tiiat cramp the poet, 
and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the 
air, •• Mv wife's a wanton wee thing,'' if a few lines smooth and pretty can 
be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made 
extempore to it ; and tliough, on farther study, I might give ) on some- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 515 



thing more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the 
air so well as this random clink : — 

["The Winsome Wee Thing." Page 180.] 



No. CCLIV. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

My dear Sir, ^Ath November, 1792. 

I agree with you that the song, "Katharine Ogie," is very poor 
stuff, and vmworthy, altogether unwortliy, of so beautiful an air. I tried 
to mend it ; but the awkward sound, Ogic, recurring so often in the 
rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. 
The foregoing song [" Highland Mary," page 226] pleases myself ; I think 
it is in my happiest manner : you will see at first glance that it suits the 
air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of 
my youthful days ; and I own that 1 should be mucii flattered to see the 
verses set to an air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis 
the stiP. glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over 
the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of '* Auld Rob Morris." I have adopted 
the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which 
promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the 
moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans Ci^reinonie, make what 
use you choose of the productions. — Adieu, &c. — R. B. 



No. CCLV. 

TO MISS FONTENELI,E. 

[Burns was very fond of the theatre, and had, as we have seen, some notion of 
trying his hand at dramatic writing. Miss Fontenelle was a youtliful member of 
the company which at stated seasons visited Dumfries, playing such parts as 
"Little Tickle " : she was very sprightly and petite in figure.] 

Madam, 

In such a bad world as ours, tliosc who add to the scanty sum of 
our pleasures are positively our benefiictors. To you, Madam, on our 
humble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted for entertainment 
than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman would 
ensure applause to the most indifferent actress, and your theatrical talents 
would ensure admiration to the j^lainest figure. This, Madam, is not the 
unmeaning or insidious compliment of the frivolous or the interested : I 
pay it from the same honest impulse that the sublime in nature e.x'cltes my 
admiration, or lier beauties give me delight. 

Will the foregoing lines [" The Rights of Woman : An Address "] be of 
any service to you in your approaching benefit-night? If they will, 1 shall 



5l6 THE LETTERS OF BURXS. 



be prouder of my muse than ever. They are nearly extempore : 1 know 

they have no great merit ; but though they sliould add but little to the 
entertainmMit of the evening, they give me the happiness of an opportunity 
to declare how much I have the honour to be, <S:c. — R. B. 



No. CCLVI. 
TO A LADY. 

IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENF.FIT. 

Madam, DuMFKins. ' 

You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with 
your presence on his benelit-night. That night is fixed for Friday first : 
the play a most interesting one, "The Way to keep Him." 1 have the 
pleasure to know Mr. G. well. Mis merit as an actor is generally acknowl- 
edged. He has genius and worth whicli would do honour to patronage: 
he is a poor and modest man ; claims which from their very silotce have 
the more forcible jiowcr on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! that from 
the indolence of those who have the good things of this life in tlicir gift, 
too often docs brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, the rightful 
due of retiring, humble want ! Of all the qualities we assign to the 
Author and Director of Nature, by far the most enviable is to be able 
"to wipe away all tears from all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid 
wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, 
who go to their graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the 
consciousness oi having made one poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon. Madam ; I came to beg, not to preach. — R. B. 



No. CCLVII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

I WILL wait on you, my ever valued friend, but whether in the morning 
1 am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and 
may prol-)ably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine employ- 
ment for the poet\s pen ! There is a species of human genius that I call 
the giii-li'Uisc class : wliat enviable dogs they are ! Round and round and 
round they go. MundelTs o.\, that drives his cotton-mill,' is thtir exact 
prototype — without an idea or wish beyond their circle — fat, sleek, stupid, 
patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish. a 

d d wt''A?«4,'t' of frctfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to 

rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torjwr ; my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round his tenement like a wild-finch, caught 
among tiie hiMrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am 
persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied when he fore- 

1 This was a primitive cotton-mill near Dumfries. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 5 1 7 

told: "And, behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall 
not prosper!" It' my resentment is awakened, it is sure to be where it 
dare not squeak; and if-- . . . I'ray tiiat wisdom and bliss be the 
frequent visitors of — R. B. 



No. CCLVIII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

[Mr. Thomr.on, criticisinp; the songs with the car of a musician, excuses himself 
for pointinf:; out what he lieenis defects — " tlie wren will uvcrsce what has been 
overlouked hy the eagle."] 

DuMFHiiis, \st Dec, 1792. 

YouK alterations of my " Nannie, O ! " arc perfectly right. So are those 
of '' My wife's a winsome wee thing": your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive imjirovement. Now, my dear Sir, with the freedom 
which characterises our correspondence, 1 must not, cannot, alter " IJonie 
Lesley." You are right tiie word "Alexander" makes the line a little 
uncouth ; but 1 think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, beyond all 
other heroes, it may h^ said, in the sublime language of Scripture, that 
" he went forth concjuering and to conquer." 

" For Nature made licr what she is, 
And never made anilher." (Such a person as she is.) 

This is, in my oi)inion. more poetical than " Ne'er made sic anilher." 
However, it is immaterial: make it either way. " Caledonie," I agree 
with you, it is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is sanctioned 
in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay; but I c:innot help it. In 
short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried. 

R. B. 



No. CCLIX. 
TO R. (JUAIIAM, ESQ., 

in NIRV. 
55lR Decetnber, 1792. 

I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mitchell, 
tlie collector, telling me th.it he has received an order from your Board to 
intpiire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person disaffected 
to tiovernment. 

Sir, you are a husband — and a f;ither. You know what you would feel 
to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your iieipless, prattling 
little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded and disgraced from a 
situation in which they had been respectable and respected, and left 
almost without the necessary support of a miserable existence. Alas, 
Sir ! must I think that such, soon, will be my lot ! and from the d-mned, 
dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ! I believe, Sir, I may 



5 1 8 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 

aver it, and in the sij;IU of Omniscience, that I wonld not tell a deliberate 
talsehood — no, not lliouyh even worse horrors, it worse can be, tlian those 
1 have mentioned, hung over my head ; and 1 say, that tlie alligation, 
whatever villain has made it. is a lie! To the British Constitution, on 
revolution principles, next after my Clod, 1 am most devoutly attached. 
You, Sir, have been much and generously my frieiul. Heaven kno\vs how 
warmly 1 have felt the obligation, and how greatly 1 liave thanked }ou. 
Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent; has given you 
patronage, and nic dependence. I would not for my single self call on 
your humanity; were such my insular, unconnected situation. I would 
despise the tear that now swells in my eye — I could brave mistortune, I 
could face ruin ; for, at the worst. " Death's thousand doors stand op;'n "' : 
but, good Cod ! the tender concerns that I have mentioned, the claims 
and ties that 1 see at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve 
Courage, and wither Resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of genius, 
you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man. I 
Know is my due : to these. Sir, i)ermit me to appeal ; by these may I 
adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, 
and which, with .aiy latest breath 1 will say it, 1 have not deserved. — R. B. 



No. CCLX. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

Dear M.VDAM, I^imi uiks, ^xst Decrmhfr, 179a. 

A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my absence, has until now 
prevented my returning niv gratet'ul acknowkdgmenls to the good tamily 
of Dunlop. and you in particular, for that hospitable kindness which ren- 
dered the four days I spent under that genial roof four of the i^leasantest 
I ever enjoyed. Alas, my dearest friend ! how few anil fleeting are those 
things we call pleasures ! On my road to A\rshire, I spent a night with a 
friend whom 1 much valued, a man whose days promised to be many ; and 
on Saturday last we laiil him in the dust! 

Jan. 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, and feel much for your situation. 
However, I heartily rejoice in your jirospcct of recovery from that vile 
jaundice. As to mvself, I am better, though not ciuite free of my com- 
plaint. You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of 
life 1 want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occasionally hard drink- 
ing is the devil to me. Against this 1 have again and again bent my 
resolution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns I have totalh ;d)an(!oned : 
it is the |)rivate jjarlies in the family way, among the hard-drinking gentle- 
men of this country, that ilo me the mischief; but even this 1 have more 
than half given over. 

Mr Corbet can be of little service to me at ]:)resent ; at least 1 should 
be shy of appl\ing. I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor for 
several years. 1 must wait tl.e rotation of the list, and there are twenty 



T 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 519 



names l)cf<)rc miiic. I ini^lit iiuU-cd j^cM ;i job of officiatinff, wlicii- a 
sellli.'d supervisor was ill, or ajijcd ; but thai hauls uic from my family, as 
I could not remove ihcui on sue!) an iiiieerlainly. Besides, some envious, 
malicious (J^vil has raised a little denuu- on my nolitical principles, and I 
wish to let that matter settle before I olfer mysell too much in the eye of 
my supervisors. 1 have set, lienceibrth, a seal on my lijis as to these 
unlucky politics; l)ut to you i must breath my sentiments. In this, as 
in everythinji else, I shall show the undis;.;uised emotions ol my soul. 
War I deprecate; misery and ruin to tiiousands are in the blast that 
announces the destructive demon. — K. IJ. 



N(.. (CI, XI. 
TO MRS. DUN I. OP. 

You see my hurried life, Madam; I (an only command starts of time: 
however, 1 am f^lad of one thin-i;; since 1 finished the other sheet, the 
polilic.il blast tiiat threatened my welfare is overblown. I have corre- 
sponded with Commission(;r (iraham, for the Hoard has made me the 
subject of their animadversions; and now I have the pleasure of informinj; 
you that all is set to rights in that (|uarter. Now, as to these informers, 

may the devil be let loose to iUit, hold ! I was prayiufj most fervently 

in my last sheet, and I must not so soon (all a-svvearinj^ in this. 

Alas! how little do th(! wantonly or idly offu ious think what mischief 
they do by thc^ir m.dicious insimiations, indirect imperlineiic(% or thou<^ht- 
Icss blabbinji;s. What a difference there is in intrinsic worth, candour, 
benevolence, ;^enerosity, kindness — in all the charities and all the virtues 
— between one class of luinian bein};;s and another. For instance, the 
amial)l(! circle I so lately mi.\i;d with in the ho.'.pitable hall of iJunlop — 
their /i[enerous hearts, their uncontaminated, di^^nilled minds, their in- 
formed and ijolished niulerslandin;;s — what a contrast, wiien compared 
(if such compariu}; w<;re not (Iownri;(ht sacrile;^'(!) with the soul of the 
miscreant vviio can deliberately plot the destruction of an honest man 
that never oiTended him, and with a <;rin of satisfaction see the iintortiinatc 
beiii}^, his faithful wife, and prattling; innocents, turned over to be;;;^ary 
anrl ruin ! 

Your cuj), my dear .Madam, arrived safe. I had tw(t wortiiy Icjiows 
fliniiiLT vvith me the other day, when I, with j^M'eat formality, produced my 
whi^imeeleerie cup, and lold them that it had been a family-piece amoiif^ 
the descendants of William Wallace, 'i'his roused such an enthusiasm, 
that th'.'y insisted on bump(Miiij^ tlu; punch round in it ; and, by and by, 
never did your ;^reat ancestor lay a Siilhron more comi)l(;teIy to rest, than 
for a time di<l your cup my two friends. .Ipro/'os, this is tlu; season of 
wishinji. May Ood bless you, my dear friend, and bless nx;, the humblest 
and sinc:erest of your friends, by j^rantinj; you yet many returns of the 
season! May all j^ood things attend you and yours, wherever they are 
scattered over the earth ! — R. li. 



520 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CCLXII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

26M January, 1793. 

I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Hcattie's essay 
will of itself be a treasure. On my part, 1 mean to draw up an appendix 
to the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c., of our Scots 
songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down, in 
the course of my acciuaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am 
such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through 
Scotland 1 made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every 
song took its rise, " Lochaber " and the " liraes of liallenden" excepted. 
So tar as the locality, either from the title of the air or the tenor of the 
song, could be ascertained, 1 have paid my devotions at the particular 
shrine of every Scots muse. 

. I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of 
Jacobite songs, but would it give no offence? in tiie meantime, do not 
you think that some of them, particularly " The Sow's Tail to (icordie," 
as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection 
of lively songs? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it wouhl be proper to have 
one set of Scots words to every air, and that set ot words to which the 
notes ought to be set. There is a iian'chK a pastoral simplicity, in a slight 
intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at 
least to my taste, and I will add, to every genuine Caledonian tasle) with 
the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any 
English verses whatever. 

The very name of Feter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His 
" Gregory " is beautiful. 1 have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, 
on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to 
enter the lists with Peter; that would be presumption indeed. My song, 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think more of the ballad 
simplicity in it. — R. B. 



No. CCLXIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

fPoor Mrs. M'I.ehose. fmflinf; her hrutal luisband's conipnny quite ynhearable, 
and her healtli hreaUin}^ clown, returned from Jamaica in Aui^u^t, 1792; but Burns 
did not know of it till some time afterwards. | 

I .SUPPOSE, my dear Madam, that by your neglecting to inform me of 
your arrival in Europe — a circumstance that could not be indifferent to 
me, as indeed no occurrence relating to you can — you meant to leave me 
to gue.ss and gather that a correspondence I once had the honour and 
felicity to enjoy is to be no more. Alas ! what heavy-laden sounds are 



THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 5 2 1 

these — " No more ! " The wretch who has never tasted pleasure has 
never known woe : what drives the soul to madness is the recollection of 
joys that are "no more!" lUit this is not language to the world: 
they do not understand it. Ikit come, ye few — the children of feeling 
and sentiment! — ye whose trembling bosom-chords ache to unutterable 
anguish as recollection gushes on the heart! — ye who are capable ot an 
attachment keen as the arrows of peath, and strong as the vigour of 
immortal being — come! and your ears shall drink a tale — But husli ! I 
must not, cannot, tell it; agony is in the recollection, and frenzy in the 
recital ! 

But, Madam, to leave the paths that lead to madness, I congratulate 
your friends on your return; and I hope that the precious health, which 
Miss V . tells me is so much injured, is restored or restoring. . . . 

I present you a book: may I hope you will accci)t it? I daresay you 
will have brought your books with you. The fourth vol. of the " Scots 
Songs" is published. \_.hii(Hsi, 1792.] I will presume to send it you. 
Shall I hear from you? But first hear me. No cold language — no 
prudential documents : I despise advice and scorn control. If you are not 
to write such language, such sentiments, as you know I shall wish, shall 
delight to receive, I conjure you, by wounded pride, by ruined peace, by 
frantic disappointed j^assion, by all the many ills that constitute that sum 
of human woes, a broken heart ! ! ! to me be silent for ever. . . . R. B- 



No. CCLXIV. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

■^d March, 1793. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time 
to write you farther. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, 
means, that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, have so 
completely shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five 
minutes' fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying u])wards with the renovating 
year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare say 
he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much 
apjjearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much-admired old High- 
land air called " The Sutor's Dochter " ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, 
and I have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send 
it to you as it was sung with great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with his corps. . . . 

There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a 
valuable seal, a present from a dej^arted friend, which vex'es me much. 

I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which 1 fancy would make 
a very decent one; and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it; will 
you be so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such a business? 
I do not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, rt all; 
but I have invented arms for myself, — so you know I shall be chief of the 



522 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

name ; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to supporters. 
These, however, 1 do not intend having; on my seal. I am a bit ot" a 
herald, and shall give you, scciindutit a> tcin, my arms. On a field azure 
a holly bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a shei)her(rs pipe and crook, saltier- 
wise, also projiier, in chief. On a wreath of the colours a woodlark 
perching on a sjirig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes : round 
the top of the crest, " Wood-notes wild"; at the bottom of the shield, in 
the usual place, " Better a wee bush than nae bield." Hy the shepherd's 
pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a 
" Stock and Horn," and a " Club," such as you see at the head of Allan 
Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the " Gentle Shepherd." By the by, 
do you know Allan? He must be a man of very great genius. — Why is 
he not more known? Has he no patrons? or do "poverty's cold wind 
and crushing rain beat keen and heavy " on him? 1 once, and but once 
got a glance of that noble edition of the noisiest pastoral in the world ; 
and dear as it was — I mean, dear as to mv ])ocket — 1 would have bought 
it ; but I was told that it was printed and engraved for .subscribers only. He 
is the Ofily artist who has hit goiuiiic pastoral costiuiie. What, my 
dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the 
heart so? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, 1 shoulil be as generous 
as the day; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than 
any other man's, I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime tjuality 
to the possessor, at which the man, in his native jioverty, wt)uld have 
revolted. What has led me to do this is the idea of such merit as Mr. 
Allan possesses, as such riches as a nabob or government contractor pos- 
sesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and 
cherish uni)rotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will 
richly repay it. — R. B. 



No. CCLXV. 
TO MISS BENSON. 

Ainr.UWAKDS MKS. BASH. MONTAC.UK. 
Madam Pi'mi-uiK'^, ■i\st Rlarch, >7g3. 

Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old 
fellows before the Flood, is this in ])articular. thai when they mi t with 
anvbody after their owu heart, they had a charming long prospecl of many 
many hapjiy meetings with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our lleeting existence, when 
you now and then, in the cha])ter of accident , meet an individual whose 
acquaintance is a real acc|uisition. there ; i ^ all the proi)abilities against 
you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more. On the 
other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none of the least of the 
miseries l)elonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom )ou hate, or 
cn-ature whom you despise, the ill run of the chances shall be so against 
you, that in the ovcrtakings, turning.s, and jostlings of life, pop, at some 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 523 

unlucky (.ciiicr, clLTnally c-oiiics tlu- wrclcli upon yuu, ;in(l will not aUovv 
your iiulii;aalic>n or coiUcuipt a uiomcnl's repose. As I am a sturdy 
l)elievcr ill tlic powers of darkness, 1 t.dvc tlicsc to l)e tlie doings ot lliat 
old author ot misehief, the Devil, it is well known that he has some kind 
of shorthand way of takin<^ down our tliouj^hts, and I make no doubt that 
he is perfectly acciuaintcd with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson: 
how nnich I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very 
fortunate 1 thouj^ht myself in her ac(iuaintance. For this last reason, my 
dear Madam, 1 must entertain no hopes of the very j^reat pleasure; of 
meeting with you aj;ain. 

Miss Hamilton tells nio that she is sending a packet to you, and 1 beg 
leave to send you the enclosed sonnet; though, tt) tell you the real truth, 
the sonnet is a mere pretence, that 1 may have the oi)portunity of declaring 
with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be, &c. — R. H. 



No. CCLXVI. 
TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., 

OK DAI.SWINTON. 
gm DUMFRIRS, /J/r/7, 1793. 

My ])oems having just come out in another edition, will you do me 
the honour to accept of a copy? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 
gentleman to whose goodness 1 have been much indebted; of my respect 
for you, as a [patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the champion 
of the liberties of my country; and of my veneration for you, as a man 
whose benevolence of heart do.'s honour to human nature. 

There ivas a time. Sir, when 1 was your dependent : ' this language then 
would have i)een like the vile incense of flattery — I could not have used 
it.. Now that connexion is at an end, cK) me the honour to accept of thi.s 
nonest tribute of respect from, Sir, 

Your much-indebled humble Servant, 

R. li. 



No. CCLXVIL 
TO C. THOMSON. 

^tk April, 1793. 

TiiW'K you, my dear Sir, for your ])arket. You cannot imagine how 
much tris business of. composing for your publication has added to my 
enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, &c., 
ballad-makmg is now ;is coniplcti ly my hojji^y-horse as ever forlificilion 
was Uncle Toby's; so 111 v'vw < aiitir it away till 1 come to the limit of my 
race, ((iod grant th.it I may t,ko the right side of the winning-jjost !), 
and then, chet-rtully looking back tvn the honest folks with whom I hc.ve 

» This was wlicu lie licld iKi (aiiii of lillisLuid as tciiunl to Mr. Miller. 



524 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

been happy, I shall say or sing, *' Sae merry as we a' hae been," and 
raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice 
of Coila shall be " Good night, and joy be wi' you a' ! " So much for my 
last words : now for a few present remarks,, as they have occurred at 
random on looking over your list. 

The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the moor," and several 
other lines in it, are beautiful; but, in my opinion — pardon me, revered 
shade of Ramsay! — the song is unworthy of ihe divine air. I shall try 
to make or mend. " For ever. Fortune, wilt thou prove," is a charming 
song; but " Logan Burn and Logan Braes" are sweetly susceptible of 
rural imagery: I'll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, die other song may 
class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse 
in some of the old songs of " Logan Water," (for I know a good many 
different ones), which 1 think pretty: — 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

" My Patie is a Lover gay" is unequal. "His mind is never muddy," 
is a muddy expression indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony ! " 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, " Rigs 
of Barley," to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can 
mend it and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it to 
your consideration. "The Lass o' Patie's Mill" is one of Ramsay's best 
songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it which my much-valued friend 
Mr. Erskine will take into his critical consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's 
statistical volumes are two claims — one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and 
the other from Ayrshire — for the honour of this song. The following 
anecdote, wiiich I had from the present Sir William Cunningham of 
Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, 1 can, on such 
authorities, believe : — 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, father 
to Earl John ; and one forenoon, riding or walking out together, his 
lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irwine Water, still 
called " Patie's Mill," where a bonie lass was " tedding hay, bare-headed, 
on the green." My lord observed to Allan that it would be a fine theme 
for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, he composed 
the first sketch of it, wiiich he produced at dinner. 

"One Day I heard Mary say" is a fine song; but, for consistency's 
sake, alter the name "Adonis." Were there ever such banns published 
as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary? I agree with you 
that my song, " There's nought but Care on every fiand," is much supe- 
rior to " Poortith cauld." The original song, " The Mill, Mill, O ! " though 
excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the title, and 
think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; and let your chosen 
song, which is very pretty, follow as an English set. " The Banks of the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 525 



Dec " is, you know, literally " Langolee," to slow time. The song is well 
enough, but has some false imagery in it ; for instance, 

" And sweetly the niglitliigale sung from the tree." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a 
tree ; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen, or 
heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in 
Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively Hat. If 1 could 
hit on another stanza equal to " The small birds rejoice," &c., 1 do my- 
self honestly avow that 1 think it a superior song. "John Anderson my 
Jo," the song to this tune in Johnson's " iMuseum," is my composition, and I 
think it not my worst: if it suits you, take it and welcome. Your collec- 
tion of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my opinion, very complete; 
but not .so your comic ones. Where are " Tullochgonmi," " Lumps o' 
Puddin\" " Tibbie Fowler," and several others, which, in my humble 
judgment, are well worthy of preservation? There is also one sentimental 
song of mine in the " Museum," which never was known out of the imme- 
diate ncighlx)urh()od until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing. 
It is called "Craigieburn Wood"; and, in the opinion of Mr. Clark, is 
one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; 
and 1 would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most 
connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are 
certainly Irish. "Shepherds, I have lost my love ! " is to me a heavenly 
air. What would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I have made 
one to it [" The Gowden Locks of Anna"] a good while ago, but in its 
original state it is not quite a lady's song. 1 enclose an altered, not 
amended, copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
Irish verses follow. — R. 13. 



No. CCLXVIII. 
TO JOHN FRANCI.S ER.SKINE, ESQ., 



[Mr. Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar, had written to Mr. Riddel, offering to 
head a i)ui)lic subscription for IJunis, under the impression that he had been dis- 
missed from the Excise for his political opinions.] 

C[[^ Dumfries, 13M April, 1793. 

Degenerate as human nature is said to be; and, in many instances, 
worthless and unprincipled as it is; still there are bright^ e-xamj^les to the 
contrary — examijles that even in the eyes of superior beings must shed a 
lustre on the name of Man. 

Such an example have I now before me, when you, Sir, came forward 
to patronise and befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely because 
poverty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of mind had 



526 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. My mucli-esteonicd friend, 
Mr. Riddle of Clenriddol. has just read me a paragraph of a letter he had 
from \ou. .Accept. Sir. of tlio silent throb of gratitude ; for words would 
but mock the emotions of my soul. 

Vou have been misinformed as to my final dismission from the Excise ; 
I am still in the service. Inileed, lut tor the exertions of a gentleman 
who must be known to you. Mr. (.Irnham of Fintry, a gentleman who has 
ever been my warm and generous friend. 1 had, without so much as a 
hearing, or the slightest previous intimation, been turned adrift, with my 
helpless family, to ail the horrors of want. Had 1 had any other re- 
source, probably I might have saved them the trouble of a dismission ; 
but the little money 1 gained by my publication is almost every guinea 
embaiked to save tVom ruin an only brother, who. tliough one of the 
worthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate, of men. 

In my defence to their accusations I said, that whatever might be my 
sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Hritain I abjured the 
idea: that a constitution, which, in its original principles, exi^erience 
had proved to Iw every w.-\y fitted for our hajipiness in society, it woukl be 
insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory : that, in consiilcra- 
tion of my being situated in a department, however humble, immediately 
in the hands ot people in power, I had forborne taking any active part, 
either personally or as an author, in the present business of Reform : 
but that, where I must declare my sentiments. I would say there existed 
a system of corruption between the executive power and ihe representa- 
tive part of the Legislature, which boded no good to our glorious consti- 
tution, and which every patriotic Briton must wish to see amended. 
Some such sentiments as these I stated in a letter to my generous patron 
Mr. Graham, which he laid before the Board at large; where, it seems, 
my last remark gave great otTence ; and one of our supervisors general, a 
Mr. Corbet, was instructed to inquire on the spot, and to document me — 
" that mv business was to act, not to tJiiitk; and that whatever might be 
men or measures, it was for me to be silent and obciiit'nt ^ 

Mr. Corbet was likewise mv steady friend; so, between Mr. Cirahani 
and him. I have been partlv forgiven ; only I understand that all hopes of 
my getting officially forward are blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest 
you. The jiartiality of my countrymen has brought me tbrward as a 
man of genius, and has given me a character to sup[wrt. In the poet I 
have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust will be 
found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife 
and family have pointed out as the eligible, and. situated as I was, the only 
eligible line of life for me, my present occupation. Still my honest fame 
is my dearest concern : and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea 
of those </<;i,'>v?(////{,'- epithets that malice or misrepresentation may affix to 
my name. I have often, in blasting anticii)ation. listened to some future 
hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in 
his hireling paragraphs : " Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronaitc of inile- 
pendence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth to 



Tl/E LETT ENS OE El/RA/S. 527 



public view and to pul)lic estimation as a man of some genius, vet, quite 
destitute of n!Houri;e.s within himself to s\\\)\)(ni his borrowed dignity, he 
dwindled iiilo a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of iiis insig- 
nificant exigence in ihc meanest of pinsuits, and among the vilest of 
mankind." 

In your illustiious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and 
defiance of these slanilerous falselioods. iJurns was a poor man from 
birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; but — /will say it! — the sterling ol 
his honest worth no poverty could debase, an<l his independent liritish 
mind <j|;pression might bend, but could not sulxlue. Have not J, to me, 
a more precious slake in my country's welfare than the richest dukedom 
in it? I have a large family of childrc-n, and the prosj;ect of many more. 
1 have three sons, who, I sec already, have brought into the world souls 
ill (|ualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves. Can 1 look tamely on, and 
see any machination to wrest from them the birthriglit of my boys — the 
little indej)end(;nt Britons, in whose veins runs my own blood? No! I 
will not! should my heart's blood stream around my attempt to defend it! 

Does any man t(;ll me, that my full efforts can be of no service ; and 
that it does not belong to my humble station to meddle with the cr)ncern 
of a nation ? 

1 can tell him, that it is on siif h individuals as I that a nation has to 
rest, both for the hand of support anrl the eye of inl(;liigencc. The unin- 
formed mob may swell a nation's bulk; and the titled, tinsel, courtly 
throng may be its feathered ornainent; but the number of those who are 
elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect, yet low enough to keep 
clear of the venal contagif)n of a court — these are a natifui's strength. 

I know not how to apoh^gize for the impertinent length of this ej^istle; 
but one small r(;c]uest I must ask of you farther. — When you have honf)ured 
this letter with a perusal, please cominit it to the flames. Burns, in 
whose behalf you have so generously interested yourself, I have here, in 
hrs native colours, drawn as he is; but should any of the jK-ople in whose 
hanrls is the very bread he eats get the least knowledge of the picture, // 
would mill the poor V, AM) forever '. 

My |Joems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to 
present you with a copy as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent 
gratitude with which 1 have the honour to be. Sir, 
Your deejjly indebted 

And ever devoted humble Servant, 

K. B. 



No. CCI.XIX. 
TO rilK KARI. OV c;i,F.N'(AIRN. 

When you cast your eye on the name at tlie bottom of this letter, 
and on the title-page of llie book [a new edition of the poems] I tlo myself 
the honour to send your lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my 



528 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



vanity tells me that it must be a name not entirely unknown to you. The 
generous patronage of your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest 
obscurity: he introduced my rustic muse to the partiality of my country; 
and to him I owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my 
soul at losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured tc 
express in ^ poem to his memory, which I have now published. This 
edition is just from the press ; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my 
respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess not the 
same dignity of man which was your noble brother's characteristic 
feature), 1 had destined a copy for the Earl of Glencairn. I learnt just 
now that you are in town : — allow me to present it to you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades the 
U'orld of letters, with professions of respect from an author, particularly 
from a poet, to a lord, are more tlian suspicious. I claim my by-past 
conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the too just con- 
clusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's name, and unnoted 
as is the obscurity of mine, with the uprightness of an honest man I come 
before your lordship, with an offering — however humble, 'tis all I have to 
give — of my grateful respect ; and to beg of you, my lord — His all 1 have 
to ask of you — that you will do me the honour to accept of it. 

I have the honour to be, 

R. B. 



No. CCLXX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

. . . Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which 
it is, in my opinion, reprehensible. You know I ought to know something 
of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point you are a complete 
judge; but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song, and 
which is the very essence of a ballad ; I mean simplicity : now, if I mis- 
take not, this last feature you arc a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as everv other poet, has not been always equally happy in his 
pieces : still I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author as 
Mr. W. proposes doing with " The last dme I came o'er the moor." Let 
a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece 
of his own ; but to mangle the works of the poor bard whose tuneful 
tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house — by Heaven, 
'twould be sacrilege! I grant that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement; 
but — I know Mr.'W. well, and esteem him much — let him mend the song 
as the Highlander mended his gun: he gave it a new stock, a new lock, 
and a new barrel. 

1 do not, by this, ol)ject to leaving out improper stanzas, where that can 
be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in " The Lass o' Patie's 
Mill" must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. I_ am 
not sure if we can take the same liberty with "Corn Rigs are bonie": 



THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 529 

perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be tlie better for it. " Cauld 
Kail in Aberdeen " you must leave with me yet a while. I have vowed to 
have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses, " Poortith cauld and restless love." At any rate, my other song, 
" Green grow the Rashes," will never suit. That song is current in Scot- 
land under the old title, and to the merry old tune of that name; which, 
of course, would mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book 
will be the standard of Scots songs for the future : let this idea ever keep 
your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this country, to suit " Bonie 
Dundee." I send you also a ballad to the " Mill, Mill, O ! " 

" The last time I came o'er the moor" I would fain attempt to make a 
Scots song for, and let Ramsay's lie the Englisii set. You shall hear from 
me soon. When you go to London on tiiis business, can you come by 
Dumfries? 1 have still several MS. Scots airs by me whicli I have picked 
up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please me vastly ; 
but vour learned lugs would perhaps be displeased with the very feature 
for which I like them. I call them simple; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air, called " Jackie Hume's Lament"? I have 
a song of considerable merit to that air, I '11 enclose you both the .song 
and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson's '■ Museum." I send 
you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken down from 
viva voce. — Adieu ! — R. B. 

No. CCLXXI. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

. , . One hint let me give you. Whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him 
not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs — I mean in the song 
department — but let our national music preserve its native features. They 
are, I own, frecjuently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules; but 
on that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect. 

No. CCLXXII. 
TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE. 

April 26, 1793. 

I AM damnably out of humour, my dear Ainslie, and that is the reasoa 
why] take up the pen \.o you : 'tis the nearest way {probatuin est^ to 
recover my spirits again. 

1 received your last, and was much entertained with it ; but I will not 
at this time, nor at any other time, answer it. Answer a letter? I never 
could answer a letter in my life ! I have written many a letter in return 
for letters I have received; but then they were original matter — spurt- 
away! zig, here; zag, there; as if the devil that, my grannie (an old 
woman indeed ) often told me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or in her more classic 
phrase, Spunkie, were poking over my elbow. — Happy thought that idea 



530 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



has engendered in niv head : Spunkie, tlum slialt Iiencefortli lie niv symbol, 
sit;nature, and lutclaiy genius ! Like tliee, liap-ste-and-lowp. here-awa- 
iheiv-awa. Iiiiigletv-pijitiletv, pell-nieli, hither-aiul-yon, rain-stani, liappy- 
go-lueky, up-iaiks-a'-hv-dH'-liglU-o'-dio-nunin, lias been, is, and shall be. 
my pitigress through the inosses nnil moors oi" this vile, bleak, barren 
wildernessof a lile ot ours. 

Come, then, my guardian spirit! like thee, may I skip away, amusing 
ni\ self by and at my own light : and it" any opaque-souled luliber of mankind 
complain that my elline, kunbent, glimnierous wanderings have misled his 
stupid steps over precipices, or into bogs; let the thick-headed Blunder- 
buss recollect, that he is not Spunkie; that 

S|niiiktc's \v;in'U:viiii;s imiM not copifil lie: 
Amid ilu-sc iH-rils luiiic <lin>l w.ill; luit lio. 

I have no doubt but schokircraft may be caught, as a Scotsman catches 
the itcli — by fiiction. How else can )ou nccoimt for it, tliat l)orn block- 
heads, by mere dint of /uuuUiiix books, grow so wise that even tluy 
themselves are equally con\inced of anil surprised at their own parts? I 
once carried this [ hiiosojihy to that dtgree. that in a knot of countr) folks 
who had a library amongst them, and who, to the honovu' of tlKir good 
sense, made me f'actiUum in the business, one of our mend)ers. — a little, 
wi.se-looking, squat, ujirighl. jabbering btnly of a tailor, — I advised him, 
instead of turning over the lea\es, to hiiui the book on his b<uk\ Johnnie 
took the hint; and as our meetings were every fourth Saturday, and, 
Pricklouse having a good Scots mile to walk in coming, anil, of course, 
another in returning, lUnlkin was sure to lay his hand on some heavy 
quarto, or ponderous folio, with and under which, wrapt up in his grey 
plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all the way home. He carried thi.s 
so far, that an old musty Hebrew concordance, which he had in a piesent 
from a neighbouring priest, by mere dint of applying it, as doctors do a 
blistering plaster, between his shoulders, vStitch. in a do/en pilgrimages, 
acquired as much rational theology as the said priest had Ak^wc by forty 
years' perusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of this theory. 

Yours, 

Sl'L'NKlK. 

No. CCIAXIII. 

TO ('.. rnoMsi)N. 

[In a letter to Peter 1 lill about tliis tiuu" liuriis .ilso hcwnils the condition of the 
country: " (") may the wrath and curse of all mankind haunt and harass IJu-ve 
turbulent, unprincipled miscreants who have involved a people in this ruinous 
business ! " j 

WiiKN 1 tell you, my dear Sir, that a tViend of mine, in whoin 1 am 
much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will 
easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing ai^ good among ballads. 



TIIF. r /■:'/'■/'/: A'S ()/'■ lUJA'/VS. 531 



My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is tiillin;;: bul tlie total min of a 
mucii-loved frit-nd is a loss indeed, rardon my sceininj; inailtation to 
your last connnands. . . . 



No. CCLXXIV. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

yntic 7j/h, 1793. 

IIavk you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready tf) burst with indig- 
nation on reading of tliose niiglily villains who divide kingdou) against 
kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of tlie wantonness 
of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of 
this kind to-day I recollected the air of " Logan Water," and it (Mciu'red 
to me that its (|iieruloiis m(;lo(ly probably had its origin from the plaintive 
indignation of some swc-lling, sulfering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides 
of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with private distress, th(; con- 
.sequ(;nce of a c(>iintry"s ruin. If I have done anything at all like justice 
to my feelings, the following song, composed in lhree-(|uarlersof an boat's 
meditation in my elbow-i hair, ought to have some merit. 

[IJcic f.;llows " Logan Water."] 



No. CCLXXV. 

TC) (;. THOMSON. 

[Mr. Thomson had sent I'urns /,'5, as an inslalniciil of rcnnineration for liis soiigM.] 

July, IJtyi. 

1 ASSUKK you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your ijecuniary 
irarcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would 
.savour of afiectation ; but, as to any more traffic of that dc-btor and 
creditor kind, 1 swear, by that honour which crowns the upright statue 
of Robert IJurns's inti.-grity, on the least motion of it I will indig- 
nantly spurn the by-jjast transaction, and from that moment commence 
entire stranger to you I Hurns's character for generosity of sentiment 
and iiidependcmce of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, 
which the cold unf(;eling ore can supply : at least, I will take care that such 
a character he shall deserve. 

'i'hank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes 
behold in any musical work such elegance and correctness. Your ])reface, 
too, is admirably written ; only your partiality to me has made you say 
too much : however, it will bind me down to double every effort iu the 
future |;rogress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the 
.songs in the list you sent me. I never co|)y what I write to you; so I 
may be often tautological, or perhaps contradictory. 

"The Flowers o' the Forest" is charming as a poem, and should be, 



532 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

and must bo, sot to the notes ; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas beginning, 

" I hac seen the sr.iiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a phice, were it but to immortalize tiie author of them, who 
is an old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in Edin- 
burgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn; 1 forget of what place; but from 
Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is — 

"O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting? 
Why, why torment us — poor sons of a day? " 

The old ballad, " I wish 1 were where Helen lies," is silly, to contomiiti- 
bility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. I'inkerton, 
in his, wiiat he calls, ancient ballads (many of them notorious, though 
beautiful enough, forgeries) has the best set. It is full of his own inter- 
polations — but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few songs which may 
have escaiK>d your hurried notice. In the mean time allow me to con- 
gratulate you now, as a brotlier of the quill, ^'ou have committed your 
ciiaracter and fame; which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the 
illustrious jiuv of the Sons and Daughters of Taste — all whom poesy 
can i^lease, or music charm. 

Being a bard of Nature, I have some pretensions to second sight; and 
I am warranted by the spirit to foretell, and affirm, that your great-grand- 
child will holil up your volumes, and say with honest pride, " This so 
much admireil selection was the work of my ancestor ! " — R. B. 



No. CCLXXVI. 
TO MISS HELEN CRAIK, 

OK ARHICI.AND. 
Madam, Dumfrif.s, August, 1793. 

I enclose you two of my late piece.s, as .some kind of return for 
the pleasure I have received in perusing a certain M.S. volume of poems 
in the possession of Captain Riddel. To rei)ay one with an olil aoiuj is 
a ])roverb wliose force you. Madam, I know will not allow. What is 
said of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true of a talent for poetry — 
none ever despised it who had pretensions to it. The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be 
melancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were 
penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. In the comparative 
view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to sulTer, but 
how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind ; give him a 
stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them 
will ever engentler a more ungovernable set of passion" than are the 
usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle 
vagary, such as arranging wild liowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the 



THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 533 



grasshopper to his haunt by his cliirping son<j, watchino; the frisks of the 
little minnows in tlic sunny pool, or lunuin<; after tlie intrigues of butterflies 
— in short, send liini adrift after some pursuit wliieh shall eternally mis- 
lead him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish 
than any man living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill 
up the measure of his woes by bestowin;^ on him a spurning sense of his 
own dignity ; and you have created a wignt nearly as miserable as a poet. 
To you, iMadam, I need not recount the fairy pleasures the Muse bestows 
to counterl)alance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like be- 
witching woman; she has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind 
from the councils of wisdom and the paths of i)rudence, involving them in 
difticulties. baiting them with poverty, branding them with intamy, and 
plunging them in the whirling vortex of ruin : yet where is the man but 
must own that all our happiness on earth is not worthy the name , that 
even the holy hermit's solitary i)rospect of paradisiacal bliss is but the 
glitter of a northern sun rising over a frozen region, compared with the 
man}- i)leasures, the nameless ruptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of 
the heart of Man ! — R. B. 

No. CCLXXVII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Aii^ist, 1793. 
I HAVE tried my hand on " Robin Adair," and, you will ])roi)ably think, 
with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramj), out-of-the-way measure, 
tnat I despair of doing anything better to it. 

[Here follow three stanzas of " Phillis the Fair." R''^c 184.] 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand on it in Scots 
verse. There 1 always find myself most at home. 

1 have just put the last iiand to the song I meant for " Cauld Kail in 
Aberdeen." If it suits you to insert it, I shall be j^leased, as the heroine 
is'a favourite of mine: if not, 1 shall also be pleased; because 1 wish, 
and will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis a tribute 
as a man ol taste, and as an editor, which you owe yourself. 

No. CCLXXVni. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Aiif^ist, 1793. 

That crinkum-crankum tune, " Robin Adair," has run so in my head, 
and 1 succeeded .so ill in my last attempt, that 1 have ventured, in this 
morning's walk, one essay more. 

[" Had I a Cave." Tage 185.] 

By the way, I have met with a musical Highlander, in Breadai!)ane's 
Fencibles, which are quartered here, who assures me that he well re- 
members his mother's singing Gaelic songs to both "Robin Adair" and 



534 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



" Gramachree." They certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish tast 
in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness; so it could not be an; 
intercourse with Ireland that could bring them; — except, what I shrcwdl; 
suspect to be the case, the wandering minstrels, harpers, and pipers, usee 
to go frequently errant through tiic wikls of both of Scotland and Ireland 
and so some favourite airs might be common to both. A case in point. 
They have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish air, as they say, callct 
" Caun du delish." The fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while 
ago, you will find the same air called a Highland one, with a Ciaelic sonj 
set to it. Its name there, I think, is " Oran Ckioil," and a fine air it is 
Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these matters. 

No. CCLXXIX. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Aiigyisi, 1793. 

That tunc, 'Cauld Kail," is such a favourite of yours, that I once mon 
roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the Muses ; when the Muse tha' 
presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph 
Coila, whispered me the following. I iiave two reasons tor thinking thai 
it was my early, sweet, simple insjMier that was by my elbow, " smooti 
gliding without stc])," and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In tht 
first place, since 1 left Goila's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet ha: 
arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her; s( 
I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or at least makes nu 
occasional visits: secondly, the last stanza of this song 1 send you is th( 
very words that Coila taught me many years ago, and which I set to ar 
old Scots reel in Johnson's " Museum." 

[" Come, let me take thee to my breast."] 

If you think the above will suit your idea of your favourite air, T shall b( 
highly pleased. " The last time I came oVr the moor" I cannot meddh 
with as to mending it ; and the musical world have been so long accustomec 
to Ramsay's words, that a difTerent song, though positively superior, woulc 
not be so well received. I am not fond of choruses to songs, so I hav( 
not made one for the foregoing. 

No. CCLXXX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Se/>t., 1793. 

You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few o 
nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this reason man) 
musical compositions, particularly wiiere much of the merit lies in coun 
terpoint, however they may transjjort and ravish the ears of you connois 
seurs, atTect mv simple lug no otherwise then merely as melodious din 
On the other hand, i)v way of amends, 1 am delighted with many little 
melodies, which the learned musician despises as silly and insipid. J dc 



rilE LETTERS OF BURNS. 535 



not know whether the old air, " Hoy, tiittic taitic," may rank amonj; this 
numl)er; i)ut well I know that, witii I'Vascr's haullioy, il has oflcii fillcc! 
my eyes wilh tears. 'I'hcrc is a tnulilioii, vviiic h 1 have nicL with in many 
places of Stoliand, tiial it was Robert lintceV; march at the l)attle of 
]5annocki)iirn. This thought, in my solitary wanflerinj;s, warmed me to 
a ]Mtch of enthusiasm on the theme of lilK'rty and indepijndenee, whicii 
threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one mii^ht suppose 
to be the <;allant Royal Scot's address to iiis heroic lollovvers on that 
eventful morning. 

["Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace Mi-d." | ' 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth and liberty, as He did that 
day! — Amen. 

1'. S. 1 showed the air to Urbani, wlio was highly pleas(,'d will) it, and 
begged me to make soft verses for it; but I had no idea of giving myself 
any troul)ie on the subject, till the accidental recollection of that glorious 
struggle for freedom, associated with tlie glowing ideas of some other 
struggles of the same nature, not quite .so ancient, rouserl my rhyming 
mania. Clarke's set of tlic tune, with his bass, you will fnid in the 
" Museum " ; though I am afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to a 
place in your elegant .selection. 

No. CCLXXXI. 

Tf) f;. THOMSON. 

Sept., 1793. 

1 OAKKSAV, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my corres])ondence 
is persecution. No matter, 1 can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby-horse, 
which, though otherwise a simple .sort of harmless idiotical i)east enough, 
has yet this blessed headstrong ])roperty, that when once it has fairly 
made off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, 
tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgarlick, the 
Uedlam jockey, quite i)eyond any useful point or |)Ost in the common race 
of man. 

The following song I have comixised for "Oran (iaoil," the Highland 
air, that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in 
your book. I have this moment fmished the song, so you have it glowing 
from the mint. If it suit you, well ! — If not, 'tis also well ! 

["Behold the Huu.."J 

N(x CCLXXXII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

•* Laddif,, lie near me," nuist lie by me for some time. 1 do not know 
the air; and until I am comi>lete master of a tune, in my own singing 

' It is related tli.it Kiirns ooinjioscd tliis noble sdiik under tlic inllutiu c of ;i slonii of r:iiii and 
lijjhtnintj aiiKjng the wilds of Glcnkcii in (J.dloway. 



536 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

(such as it is), I can never compose for it. My way is: 1 consider the 
poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expressicni ; then 
choose my theme; begin one stanza; when that is composed, which is, 
generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now 
and then, look out for objects in nature round me that are in unison or 
harmony with the cogitations of my fancy and workings of my bosom ; 
humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have framed. 
When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of 
my study, and there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging, at intervals, 
on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical 
strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invariably 
my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

" IJlythe hae 1 been o'er the hill" is one of the finest songs I ever made 
in my life ; and, besides, is composed on a young lady, positively the most 
beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving you the names 
and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some future edition of 
your work, jxrhaps half a century hence, 30U must certainly include " The 
boniest lass in a' the warld " in your collection. 

" Saw ye my Father?" is one of my greatest favourites. The evening 
before last 1 wandered out, and began a tender song, in what I think is 
its native style. 1 must premise that the old way, and the way to give 
most effect, is to have no starting-note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst 
at once into the pathos. Every country girl sings " Saw ye my Father? " 
&c. . . . 

One song more and I have done — "Auld Lang Syne." The air is but 
mediocre ; hut the following song, the old song of the olden times, and 
which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down 
from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air: — 

[Here follows " Auld Lang Syne," of which Allan Cunningham attributes the 
second, third, and fourth verses to Burns.] 

Now, I suppose, I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all 
is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called, "(iil Morice." 
"Tranent Muir," " Macpherson's Farewell," " Battle of Sheriff-Muir," or, 
" We ran and they ran " (I know the author of this charming ballad, and 
his history), " Hardiknute," "Barbara Allan" (I can furnish a finer set 
of this tune than any that has yet appeared) ; and. besides, do you know 
that 1 really have the old tune to which " The Cherry and the Slae " was 
sung, and which is mentioned as a well-known air in " Scotland's Com- 
plaint," a book published before poor Mary's days. It was then called 
"The Banks o' Helicon," an old poem wiiich Pinkerton has brought to 
light. You will see all this in Tytler's " flistory of Scottish Music." The 
tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit ; but it is a great curiosity. 
I have a good many original things of this kind. 



TFIE LETTERS OF BURNS. 537 



No. CCLXXXIII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Scptevihcr, 1793. 

"Who shall decide when doctors disagree?" My ode " Bannockburn" 
pleases inc so much that 1 cannot alter it. . . . 

1 have finished my song to "Saw ye my Father?" and in English, as 
you will .see. Tliat there is a syllable too much tor the e.vprcssion ot" the 
air, it is true; but allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted 
crotchet into a crotcliet and a quaver is not a great matter : however, in 
that I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry 
1 si)eal< with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my 
ideas with the utmost diftidence. 

No. CCLXXXIV. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

. . . Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If they 
were like the " IJanks of Ikinna," for instance, though really Irish, yet in 
the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond 01 Irish 
music, wiiat say you to twenty-five of them in an additional numl)er? We 
could easily hiul this quantity of charming airs; I will take care that you 
shall not want songs ; and I assure you that you would find it the most 
saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of " Roy's Wife," for the 
music's sake, we shall not insert it. " Deil tak the Wars" is a charming 
song ; so is " Saw ye my Peggy ? " " There's nae Luck about the I louse " 
well deserves a place. I cannot say that "O'er the hills and far awa" 
strikes me as equal to your selection. "This is no my ain House" is a 
great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your set of it, I will 
task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of " I hae laid a 
Herrin' in Sawt"? I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty : and there 
are many others of the same kind, pretty; but you have not room for 
them. You cannot, I think, insert " Fye, let's a' to the Bridal," to any 
other words than its own. 

What pleases me .as simple and 7iaive, disgusts you as ludicrous and 
low. For this reason "Fye, gie me my coggie. Sirs," " P'ye, let's a' to 
the Bridal," with several others of that cast, are, to me, highly pleasing; 
while " Saw thee my Father, or .saw ye my Mother? " delights me witii its 
descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, " Ken ye what Meg o" the Mill 
has gotten?" plea.ses niy.self so much, that I cannot try my hanil at another 
.■■ong to the air; so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at all 
this ; but like " Ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." 

No. CCLXXXV. 

TO JOHN McMURDO, ESQ. 

SiK, Dumfries, December, 1793. 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest 
friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which 



538 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than 
ever 1 owed it to any man. Here is Kcr's account, and here are si» 
guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man — or woman either. But 
tor these damned dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages [Scottish banknotes], I 
had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Inde- 
pendent of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the con- 
sciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman of itsell 
was fully as much as 1 could ever make head against; but to owe you 
money too was more than 1 could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a collection of Scots songs I 
have for some years been making : 1 send you a ])erusal of what 1* have 
got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or six clays, 
and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice you. 
very few of them are my own. When you are tired of them, ])lease leave 
them with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of 
the collection in the world ; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate 
negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains. 

R. B. 

No. CCLXXXVI. 

TO CAPTAIN [ROBERTSON OF LUDE?]. 

Sir, DiMKKiES, sM December, 1793. 

Heated as I was with wine yesterniglit, I was perhaps rather seeni' 
ingly impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your acquaint 
ance. You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. "He 
is the father of the Scotti.sh country reform, and is a man who does 
honour to the business at the same time that tlie business docs honour to 
liim," saiil my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was 
talking of your coming to this country with your corps. "Then." I 
said, " I have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, and say to him, 
' Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of hvmianity are dear, 
and as a patriot to whom the rights of \ our country are sacred.'" 

In times like these, .Sir, when our conunoners are barely able by the 
glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and 
when lords are what gentlemen would l^e ashamed to be. to whom shall a 
sinking country call for help? To the independent countrv gentleman 
To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be m earnest for 
her welfare, and who in the honest pride of man .can view with equal 
contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of corrui^tion. 

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and 
W'hich I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I tall in 
with you at the theatre. I shall be glad to ha\e your opinion of it. Accept 
of it. Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of resix>ct from a man 
who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind. 

I have the honour to be, 
R. B 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 53< 



No. CCLXXXVII. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

WITH A COPY OV HUUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS AT HANNOCKHURN. 
My Lord Dumi-uies, hM Jmiuary^ I794. 

Will your lordship allow me to present you with tlie eiuloscd little 
composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the aaiuaiutance 
witli whieh you have been i)leased to honour me. Independent of my 
entluisiasm as a Scotsman, 1 have rarely met with anything in history 
whieh interests my feelings as a man equal with the story of Bannock- 
burn. On the one hand, a cruel but able usurjier, leading on the finest 
army in Europe to extinguish the last si)ark of freedom among a greatly 
daring and greatly injured people; on the other hand, the desperate 
relics of a gallant nation devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding 
country, or i)erish with her. 

Lil^erty ! thou art a prize truly and indeed invaluable ; for never canst 
thou be too dearly bought ! — R. B. 



No. CCLXXXVIIL 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Burns's repugnance to officers of the army was prol^ably clue in some measure 
to his hostility to the political cause with which he identified them.] 

Dear Madam, 

I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to 
your box-door, the first object which greeted my view was one of tho.se 
rol)ster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian 
fruit. On the conditions anrl capitulations you so obligingly offer, 1 shall 
certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phi/, a part of your box-furniture 
on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business of the visit. 

Among tlie profusion of idle com|)liments which insidious craft, or un 
meaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine — a slirine, how far exalted 
above such adoration! — permit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay 
you the honest triliule of a w.irm heart and an independent mind ; and to 
assure you that I am, thou most amiable and most accomplished of thy .sex, 
with the niost respectful esteem and fervent regard, thine, <S:c. 

R. B 



54° THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

No. CCLXXXIX. 
TO MR, SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN., 



[At a supper-tal)le Burns proposed the toast, " May our success in the present 
war be equal to the justice of our cause," which was resented by an officer present 
as a reflection on the Government and the army. Next morning Burns wrote this 
note.] 

Dear Sir. ^imday Morning. 

I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. 

From the expressions Capt. made use of to me, had I had nobody's 

welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according 
to the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another 
about the business. The words were such as generally, I believe, end in 
a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the 
peace and welfare of a wife and family of children in a drunken squabble. 
Farther, you know that the report of certain political opinions being mine 
has already once before brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread 
lest last night's business may be misrepresented in the same way. You, I beg, 
will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for iVIr. Burns's welfare with 
the task of waiting as soon as jjossible on every gentleman who was present, 
and state this to him, and, as you please, show him this letter. What, 
after all, was the obnoxious' toast? " May our success in the present war 
be equal to the justice of our cause" — a toast that the most outrageous 
frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that this morning 
you will wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall only 
add, that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in my estima- 
tion as Mr. should use me in the manner in which 1 conceive he has 

done. — R B. 



No. CCXC. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Burns's intimacy with the Riddels was interrupted about this time in conse- 
quence of the Poet's rough behaviour to the lady after a bout of hard drinking at 
the dinner-table. The following letter of apology is supposed to be written from 
the Dead to the Living.] 

Madam, 

I daresay that this is the first epistle you ever received from this 
nether world. I write you from the regions of hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my leaving your earth I do not 
exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxication, 
contracted at your too hospitable mansion ; but, on my arrival here, I was 
fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 5 4 1 

infernal confine for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven Aonths, and 
twenty-nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct 
yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, 
with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while 
an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel — his name I think is 
RecoUedion — with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach 
me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, -if I could in any 
measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my 
conduct last night so much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to 
my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men 
of the company 1 will make no apology. Your husband, who insisted on 
my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me; and the other 
gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you. Madam, I have much 
to apologize. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisi- 
tions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There 

was a Miss I too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming 

manners — do make, on my part, a miserable d-mned wretch's best apology 
to her. A Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me the honour to be pre- 
judiced in my favour; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her 
beyond all forgiveness. To all the other ladies please present my humblest 
contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. 
O all ve powers of decency and decorum ! whisper to them that my errors, 
though great, were involuntary — that an intoxicated man is the vilest of 
beasts — that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one — that to be 
rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me — but — 

Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hellhounds that ever dog my steps 
and bay at my heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of. Madam, 

Your humble Slave, 
R. B. 

No. CCXCI. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Madam, 

I return your common-place book. I have perused it with much 
pleasvire, and would have continued my criticisms ; but as it seems ths 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value. 

Ii it is true that " offences come only from the heart," before you 1 am 
guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most accomplished of 
women and the first of friends — if these are crimes, I am the most offend- 
ing thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly confi- 
dence, noiu to find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn, is a wrench that 
my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of miserable good luck, 
that while de-Jiaut-en-bas rigour may depress an unoffending wi^etch to the 
ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stabborn something in his bosom, 



which, though it cannot- heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate 
to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abilities ; the most sincere esteem, 
and ardent regard, for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; and the 
most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the 
honour to be, Madam, 

Your most devoted humble Servant, 

R. B. 

No. CCXCII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[In spite of Burns's rather abject pleadings the breach of friendship was not 
repaired. The lampoons on Mrs. Riddel, in which Burns vented his anger, cast a 
dark shadow on this part of his life.] 

I HAVE this moment got the song from Syme, and I am sorry to see that 
he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him 
anything again. 

I have sent you " Werter," truly happy to have any the smallest oppor- 
tunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I was at Woodlea ; and that 
once froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was such, 
that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence 
of death on him, could only have envied my feelings and situation. But 
I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute 
of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man 
whom I have seen approach her. — R. B. 

No. CCXCIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

["They," says Mr. Lockhart, "who have been told that Burns was ever a 
degraded being, who have permilted themselves to believe that his only consola- 
tions were those of ' the opiate guilt applies to grief,' will do well to pause oi'er 
this noble letter and judge for themselves."] 

25/A February, 1794. 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and 
rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide 
her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst 
thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tortures of suspense, the 
stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast? If thou canst 
not do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, 
with thy inquiries after me? . . . 

For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitu- 
tion and frame were, ab origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of 



THE- LE TTERS OF B URNS. 543 



hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic 
vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed times — 
losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear — have so irri- 
tated me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate 
spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in 
reflection every topic of comfort. A lieart at ease would have been 
charmed witli my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like 
Judas Iscariot preaching the Gospel : he might melt and mould the hearts 
of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of mis- 
fortune and misery. The one is composed of the difterent modificat'ons 
of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of 
courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feel- 
ings and sentiments which, however the sceptic may deny them or the 
enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and com- 
ponent parts of the human soul ; those senses of the mind, if I may be 
allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those awful 
obscure realities — an all-powerful and equally beneficent God, and a 
world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of 
combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field: the last pours the balm 
of comfort into the wound which time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear -Cunningham, that you and I ever talked 
on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the 
trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many ; or at most as an 
uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know anything of, and 
with which they are fools, if they give themselves much to do. Nor would 
I quarrel witli a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his 
want of musical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to 
me and to others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in 
this point of view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind 
of every child of mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a 
man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoy- 
ments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, who is just now 
nmning about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart, 
and an imagination delighted with the painter and rapt with the poet. 
Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy 
gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while 
in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through 
nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt 
above this .sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts 
out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson — 

" These, as they change, Almishty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of Thee : " 

and so on in all the .spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These are 
no ideal pleasures, they are real delights ; and I ask, what of the delights 
among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal, to them.'' And they 



544 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

have this precious, vast addition, tliat conscious virtue stamps them for 
her own, anil lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a 
witnessing, judging, and approving God. — R. B. 



No. CCXCIV. 

TO MISS LAWRIE. 

[When C.ipt. Riddol dioil, in April, 1 794, no reconcilintion had l;il<on place 
between hiui and lUiins; hut the laltor, recollectiiijj only the k'nulm-ss lie had 
received at Carse, wrote a sonnet (the only verses he composed (.luiinj^ ihe lir>t iialf 
of 1794) on the death of liis former friend, which was publishetl in a local [laper. 
The foUowinj:; letter was addressed to Mrs. Riddel's sister in order to jirocure the 
return of some manuscript jtieces which had been lent to Capt. Riildel, but which, 
for various reasons, IJurns was very anxious should be suppressed.] 

Madam, Dumkkies, 1794. 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me 
trouble you with this letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for your 
sen.se, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in my breast, as I ])ut 
pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with the friend 
of my soul and his amiable connexions! the wrench at my heart to think 
that he is gone, for ever gone from me, never more to meet in the wander- 
ings of a weary world I and the cutting reHeclion of all, that I had most 
unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the conlidence of that soul 
of worth, ere it took its flight! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinarv anguish. However, you 
also mav be oflended with some iiiipiiicd im])roprieties of mine : sensibility 
you know 1 po.ssess, and sincerity none will ilcny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which ha\e been raised against me is not 
the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to 
wage. The powers of jHisitive vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
against direct malevolence I can be on my guard ; but who can estimate 
the fUuity of giddy caprice, or ward otf the unthinking mischief of 
precijiitate folly? 

I have a favour to request of you. Madam ; and of vour sister Mrs. Riddel, 
through your means. You know that, at the wisfi of my late frienil, I 
made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had ever written. They 
are many of them local, some of them puerile and silly, and all of them 
unfit for the public eye. As I have .some little fame at stake — .1 fame that 
I trust may live when the hate of those who "watch for my halting," and 
the contumelious sneer of those whom accident has made my superiors, 
will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of oblivion — I arn uneasy now 
for the fate of those manuscripts. Will Mrs. Riddel have the goodness 
to destrov them, or return them to me? As a pledge of friendship they 
Avere bestowed; and that circumstance indeed was all their merit. 
Most unhapi)ily for me. that merit they no longer jwsscss ; and I hope 
that Mrs. Riddel's goodness, which I well know, and ever will revere, will 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 545 

not refuse this favour to a man whom she once held in some degree of 
estimation. 
With tlie sincerest esteem, I have tlie lionour to Ije, Madam, &c. 

R. B. 

No. CCXCV, 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Castle Douci.as, 25M Jnne, 1794. 

Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse 
my broodinj^ fancy as 1 may. S<jlitary confinement, you know, is Howard's 
favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality 
it happens that I have so long i^een exceeding sinful as to neglect the 
corresj)ondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you 
that I have been in j)oor hcaltii will not be excuse enough, though it is 
true. 1 am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. 
My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are 
mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of 
a stanza 1 have been framing as I passed along the road. The .sui)ject is 
Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I 
design it an irregular ode for General Washington's birthday. After 
hiving mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms 1 come to Scotland 
thus : — 

" Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths amonR, 
Tticc, lamed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swiiiiiiiinf; eyes; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled? 
Immin;;led with tht; miKhly dead, 

Ucncath the hallowed turf where Wallace liesl 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death : 
Ve babbling winds, in silence sweep; 
- Disturb ye not the hero's sleep. 

With the additions of — 

" Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Hraved usurpation's boldest daring; 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Crushed the despot's proudest bearing! 
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star. 

And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age." 

You will probably have anotber scrawl from me in a stage or two. 

R. B. 

No. CCXCVL 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 
My dear Friend, Dtjmfrtes, 1794. 

You should have heard from me long ago ; but, over and above 
some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I 



546 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so that 
/ hin>c almost hum^ tny harp on tlie ivHUkc trees. 

1 am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems; and this, 
with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment. 

I send you by my iViend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fit'th 
volume ; if we cannot finish it any other wav, what would you think of 
Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs."* In tiie mean time, at your 
leisure, give a copy of the "Museum" to my worthy friend Mr. I'dor 
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with lilank leaves, exactly .".s 
he did the L;urd of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every anecdote I can 
learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A copy 
of this kind 1 sliall leave with vou, the editor, to publish at some after 
period, by way of making the "Museum" a book famous to the end of 
time, and you renowned for ever. — R. B. 



No. CCXCVIT. 
TO CLARI\D.\. 

Before you ask me why I have not written you, first let me be informed 
by yow. lunv I sliall write you? "In friendship,'' you say; and 1 have 
many a time taken up my pen to try an epistle of "friendship" to vou, 
but it will not do ; "tis like Jove grasping a popgun alter having wielded 
his thunder. When 1 take up the pen, recollection ruins me. Ah, my 
ever-dearest Clarinda! Clarinda ! What a host of memory's tendcrest 
oflspring crowd on my fancy at that sound ! Hut I must not indulge that 
subject; \ou have forbid it. 

1 am extremely happy to learn that your precious health is re-established, 
and that vou are once more fit to enjo\ that satisfaction in existence which 
health alone can give us. My old friend Ainslie has indeed been kind to 
you. Tell him, that I enw him the jxiwer of serving you. 1 had a letter 
from him a while ago, but it was so dry, so distant, so like a card to one of 
his clients, that I could scarce bear to read it, and have not yet an.swered 
it. He is a good, honest fellow, and can write a friendly letter, which 
would do equal honour to his head and his heart, as a whole sheaf of his 
letters which I have bv me will witness ; and though Fame does not blow 
her trumjwt at mv approach nina as she diil ilien. when he first honoured 
me with his frientlship. yet I am as proud as ever; and when I am l.Jd in 
my grave, I wish to be stretched at my f«ll length, that 1 may occupy 
every inch of ground I have a right to. 

You would hiugh were you to see me where I am just now. Would to 
Heaven you were here to laugh with me, though I am afraid tliat cr\ing 
would be our first emiiloyment ! Here am I set. a solitary hermit, in the 
solitary room of a solitary inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by me, as grave 
and ns stupid as an owl, but, like that owl, still faithful to my old song; in 
confirmation of which, my dear Mrs. Mac, here is your good health ! May 
the hand-waled benisons o' Heaven bless \our Lonnie face; and the 



rnp. /.F.TTERS OF n URN'S. 547 



wratch wha skellies at your welfare, may the auld tinkler deil get him, to 
clout his rotten heart ! Amen. 

You must know, my dearest Madam, that these now many years, where- 
evcr I am, in whatever company, when a married lady is called as a toast, 
I constantly give you ; but as your name has never passed my lips, even 
to my most intimate fri<;nd. I give you by the name of Mrs. Mac. Thi.s 
is so well known among my ac(juaintances, that when any married lady is 
(ailed for, the toast-master will say: "Oh. we need not ask him who it is: 
Iiere's Mrs. Mack !" I have also, among my convivial friends, set on foot 
a round of toasts, which 1 call a round of Arcadian Shepherdesses — that 
is, a round of favourite ladies, under female names celebrated in ancient 
song ; and then you are my Clarinda. So, my lovely Clarinda, 1 devote 
this glass of wine to a most ardent wish for your happiness. 

In vain would Pruflcncc, with decorous sneer. 
Point out a (x-iisuriiiK world, and bid me fear: 
Above thai world on win^s of love I rise; 
I know its worst, and can that worst despise. 

" Wronged, injured, shunned, iinpitied, nnrcdrcst — 
The mocked quolaiion of the scorncr's jest " — 
Let Prudence direst Ixjdements on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays them all. 

I have been rhyming a little of late, but I do not know if they are worth 
postage. 

Tell me what you think of the following monody. \See pai^c 1 17.] 
The subject of the foregoing is a woman of fashion in this country,' 
with whom at one jjeriod I was well acfjuainted. l>y some scandalous 
conduct to me. and two or three other gentlemen here as well as me, she 
steered so far to the north of my good opinion, that I have made her the 
theme of .several ill-natured things. . . . 

R. B. 

No. CCXCVIII. 
TO O. TMOxM.SON. 

July, i7()4. 

I.s there no news yet of Plej'el ? Or is your work to be at a dead stop 
until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage thraldom 
of democratic discords? Alas the day ! Anrlwoeisme! That ausjjicious 
jjeriod, pregnant with the happiness of millions, . . . seems by no 
means near.'^ 

No. CCXCIX. 

TO G. TIIOjM.SON. 

30M Attgtisl, 1794. 
The last evening, as 1 was straying out, and thinking of " O'er the Hills 
and Far Away," I spun the following stanza for it ; but wiiether my 

' Mrs. Riddel. 

' The suppressed portion of the letter was an ironical tir.ade on the mishaps of Prussia in her 
war against Prance. 



5 4 S THE LET TERS OF B URMS. 

spiniiii)<; will deserve to he laid up in store, like the precious thread of the 
silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile uiaiuiiaeture of the si)ider, 
I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was pleased with 
several lines in it, at first; but I own that now it a])pears rather a flimsy 
business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a crili(|uc. 
We have many sailor son<;s ; but, as far as I at })resent recollect, they arc 
mostly the etiusions of the jovial sailor, not the wailin<;s of his love-lorn 
mistress. I must here make one sweet e.vception — "Sweet y\nnie frae 
the Sea-beach came." Now for the song: — 

["Oil the Seas and I'ar Away." Given \\\ page 187.] 



No. CCC. 

TO C. THOMSON. 

Scf>t., 1794. 

I SIIAI-L withdraw my "On the .Seas and Far Awav" altogether: it is 
unecpial, and unwortliv the work. Making a poem is like Ix^getlinga son: 
you canncjt know wheiher you have a wise man or a fool, until you produce 
liini to the woiid to try him. 



No. rrci. 

TO O. THOMSON. 

Sefit., 1794. 

. . . To compare small things with great, my taste in music is like 
the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: we arc told that 
he frecpiently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and alw;i)s, without 
any hypocrisy, confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in 
music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and 
cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I 
am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that 
pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me most 
exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would probably be 
showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses tor " Rothe- 
murche's Rant," an air which puts me in raptures; and, in fact, unless I 
be ple.iscd with the tune, I never can make verses to it. . . . 

I have begun anew " Let me in this ae night." Do you think that we 
ought to retain the old chorus.? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of tlie old song. I do not altogether like the 
third line of the first stan/.a, but c annot alter it to please myself. I am 
just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the diiiouciiu'itt to be 
successful or otherwise? .Should she " let him in " or not? . . . 

How do yon like the following epigram, which 1 wrote the other day, on 
a lovely young girPs recovery fiom a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 549 



physician wlio sccmiii^^ly saved licr fioin her j;ravo ; and to liiin I address 
tlic Iblluwiiig. (Sec piii^e 161.) 

'I'D DK. MAXVVKI.r,. 

ON MTSS JUSMH H:AI(.'s idCIOVKUV. 
Maxwell, if merit licic yim t i.ivc, 

Thai iiiciil I deny ; 
Yon Have fail jissii- riiiiii llie );iave? — 

An ant;cl i miM nni die 

God grant you [alienee vvilli I his slii|iid cpislii' ! 

No. CCCII. 

TO C. THOMSON. 

My DKAK FkIKNIJ, lyM rV/^^Jfr, 1794. 

liy this ni()ininf;'s post I liave your list, anrl, in general, 1 hij^hly 
ajjprove of It. 1 shall, al more; leisure, ^ivc yon a eriti(|ue on the wiiole. 
Clarke goes to your lovvn l)y lo-day's lly, and 1 wish yon would call on liiin 
and take l»is ojjinion in general: yon know his taste is a standard, lie 
will return h(!re again in a wi^ek or two; so please; do not miss asking for 
him. One thing I hope he will do, persuade you to adopt my favourile, 
*' Cragie-I)urn Wood," in your selection: it is as great a favoiu'itc! of his 
as of mine. The la<ly on whom it w:is made is one of the finest women 
in .Scotland ; aiid, in fact {ciilrc riotix), is in a manner to me wli.it .Sterne's 
I'^liza was to hiiii -a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in (►In; guileless 
.simplicity of i'lalonic love. (NowdoiTt ])ut any of your s(|uinting con- 
structions on this, or liive ;niy clishmaclaiver about it among our accpiaint- 
ances.) I assure you liiil lo my lovely friend you ;ue indebted for many 
of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin-horse 
routine of existence could inspire a man wilh life, and love, and joy — 
could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos e(|ual lo the genius 
of your book? — no! no! Whenever I waul to be more than ordinary in 
song, to be in some degree; e(|ual to your diviner airs, do you imagine I 
fast and pray for the celestial emanation? 'font <iu contraircl I have a 
glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the 
(livinity of healing and |)oetry, when erst he piped to the ilocks of Admetus. 
I put myself on a regimen of admiring a line woman; and in jiroporlion 
to the aJorability of her cliarms, in pro])orti()n you are delii;htcd willi my 
verses. The lightning of Ik r eye is the godiiead of I'.nii.issus, and the 
witchery of Iut smile the divinity of Helicon ! . . . 

These h'nglish songs gravel n)e to death. I have not that command of 
the language th;it I have of my native tonLMie. I have been at " Duncan 
Gray," to dress it in i'jiglish, but all i can do is depior,d)ly sUipid. 



5 5 o THE LET TEKS OF B URNS. 

No. CCCIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

[" Chloris," otherwise Jean, was the eldest daughter of Mr. W. Lorimer, a 
farmer on the banks of the Nith — a very handsome girl. She made an unfortu- 
nate love-match with a young gentleman from Cumberland named Whelpdnlc. 
who, being pursued for delits, abandt)ned his wife. She returned to liei- parents, 
being then only about eighteen years of age, and did not see her liusband'again k>r 
twenty-three years.] 

November, 1794. 

On my finst visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name 
of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea which 1, in 
my return from the visit, wrought into the following song [Chloris] . 

I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of " ma 
chere Ajiiie.'''' I assure you, I was never more in earnest in my life than 
in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love 
is a passion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it 
does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, 

" Where Love is liberty, and Nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instmment of which the gamut is scanty 
and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers 
equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a 
very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness 
of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my 
soul ; and whatever pleasure I might wish for, or w hatever might be the 
raptures they would give me, yet, if the)' interfere with that first principle, 
it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and 
generosity disdains, the purchase ! 

Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English 
songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs of which 
themeasurc is something similar to what I want; and, with a little alter- 
ation, so as to suit the rhythm of the air e.xactly, to give you them for your 
work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have 
ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. . . . 



No. CCCIV. 

TO. G. THOMSON. 

. . . There is an air, " The Caledonian Hunt's Delight," to which I 
wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. " Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie 
Doon" : this air, I think, might find a place among your hundred, as Lear 
says of his knights. Do }'Ou know the history of the air? It is curious 
enough. A good many yei^rs ago Mr. James Miller, writer in your good 



THE LE r TEKS OF B URNS. 5 5 1 



town — a gentleman whom, possibly, you know — v/as in company with our 
friend Clarke ; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent 
ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of 
joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve 
some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Cer- 
tain it is that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, 
which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the 
tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black 
keys ; but this account which I have just given you Mr. Clarke informed 
me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difficult it is to trace the 
origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this was an 
Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard 
it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a Countess 
informed me that the first person who introduced the air into this country 
was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from 
an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain 
the truth respecting our poesy and music! I myself have lately seen a 
couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at 
the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen 
them. . . . 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request ; His dunning your 
generosity : but, in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or 
poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest 
pride to write you this, but an ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious 
apology. To make }ou some amends, as soon as I have extracted the 
neces.sary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a 
figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it in my 
power to please her so much. Lucky it is for )our patience that my paper 
is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give 
over. — R. B. 



No. CCCV. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

19/'// Ncn'etnber, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual correspondent I am ; though 
indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you have 
so flattered me on my horsemanshijj with my favourite hobby, and have 
praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely e\'er off his 
back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my 
walk before breakfast I finished my duet [" O Philly, happy be that Day "J 
which you were pleased to praise so much. . . . 

I remember your objections to the name Philly ; but it is the common 
abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to my 
ear, a vulgarity about it which unfits it for anything except burlesque. 
The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, 



552 THE LETTERS OF B URNS. 

Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity 
for simplicity ; whereas simplicity is as much eliugnJe from vulgarity, on 
the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you, as to the air " Craigie-burn Wood," that a chorus 
would, in some degree, spoil the effect; and shall certainly have none in 
my projected song to it. It is not, however, a case in point with " Rothe- 
murche " ; there, as in " Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus goes, to my 
taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with 
'■ Roy's Wife" as well as " Rothemurche." In fact, in the first part of 
both tunes the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity 
depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all 
tliL-ir wildness, and humoui* the verse accordingly. Leaving out the 
starting-note in both tunes has, I think, an effect that no regularity could 
counterbalance the want of: — 



O Rpfs Wife of Aldivalloch, 

O Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 



Try 

and 
com are with \ ^"^'^ "^'^^^ "*" Aldivalloch, 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike you? In the last 
case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild 
originality of the air; whereas in the first insipid method it is like the 
grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is 
my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. 

" The Caledonian Hunt " is so charming, that it would make any 
subject in a song go down ; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. 
Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are 
excellent. For instance " Todlin Hame" is, for wit and humour, an 
unparalleled composition; and "Andrew and his cutty Gun" is the work 
of a master. By the wav, are you not quite vexed to think that those men 
of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish 
lyrics, should be unknown? It has given me many a heart-ache. — R. B. 



No. CCCVI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Since yesterday's penmanship I have framed a couple of English 
stanzas, by way of an English song to " Roy's Wife." 

[The song " Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy," is given in pa<^e 221.] 

Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room 
and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum of applause from some- 
body. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling 
circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 553 

stock and horn. I have at last gotten one ; but it is a very rude instru- 
ment : it is composed of three parts ; the stock, which is the hinder 
thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton-ham; the liorn, which 
is a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the 
aperture be large enough to admit the stock, to be pushed up through the 
horn, until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone; and, lastly, an 
oiten reed exactly cut and notched, like that which you see every shepherd- 
boy have when the corn-stems are green and full-grown. The reed is not 
made fast in the bone, but held by the lips, and plays loose in the 
smaller end of the stock ; while the stock, with the horn hanging on its 
lirger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven 
ventiges on the upper side, and one back-ventige, like the common flute. 
This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly 
wliat the shepherds are wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we 
have not the art of blowing it rightly: for we can make little of it. If 
Mr. Allan chooses. I will send him a sight of mine ; as I look on myself 
to be a kind of brother-brush with him. " Pride in poets is nae sin," and, 
I will say it, that 1 look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only 
genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the world. — R. B. 



No. CCCVII. 
TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ., 

OF UALSWINTON. 

[This is a reply to an dffer by Mr. Perry (through Mr. Peter Miller) of an 
engagement on the Morning Chronicle, of which he was editor.] 

' Dear Sir, Dumfries, Novembo-, 1794. 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely do I thank 
you for it ; but in my present situation I find that I dare not accept it. 
You well know my political sentiments ; and were I an insular individual, 
unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the most fervid 
enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services : I then could and 
would have despised all consequences that might have ensued. 

My proepect in the Excise is something ; at least, it is, encumbered as 
I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half a score of helpless 
individuals, wliat I dare not sport with. 

In the mean time they are most welcome to my Ode ; only let them 
insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to me. 
Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I cannot 
doal)t ; if he will give me an address and channel by wliich anything will 
come safe from those sj^ies with which he may be certain that his corre- 
spondence is beset, 1 wi'l now and then send him any bagatelle that I may 
write. In the present hurry of Europe nothing but news and politics will 



554 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

be regarded ; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my 
little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I 
have long had it in my head to try my hand in the way of little prose 
essays, which I propose sending into the world through the medium of 
some newspaper; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. 
Perry shall be welcome ; and all my reward shall be, his treating me 
with his paper — which, by the by, to anybody who has the least relish for 
wit, is a high treat indeed. 

With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, dear Sir, 

R. B. 



No. CCCVIII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

yanuary, 1795. 

I FEAR for my songs ; however a few may please, yet originality is 
a coy feature in composition, and a multiplicity of efforts in the same 
style disappears altogether. For these three tiiousand years we poetic 
folks have been describing the spring, for instance ; and, as the spring 
continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in imagery, &:c., of 
these said rhyming folks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs says that love and wine are the exclusive 
themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and conse- 
quently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty 
good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme : — 

[" Is there, for honest poverty." Page 227.] 



No. CCCIX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

My DEAR Thomson, Ecclefechan, jth February, 1795. 

You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to 
you. In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity 1 have 
acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked little village. 
I have gone forward, but snows, of ten feet deep, have impeded my pro- 
gress : I have tried to '* gae back the gate I cam again," but the same 
obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfor- 
tune, since dinner a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that 
would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a 
butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good company. 
In fact, I have been in a dilemma — either to get drunk, to forget these 
miseries; or to hang myself, to get 'rid of them: like a prudent man (a 
character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed), I, of two 
evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service ! 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 555 



No. CCCX. 
TO MR. HERON, 

OF HERON. 

[Mr. Heron was at this time a candidate for the representation of the Stewarfry 
of Kirkcudbright; aiul there can be no (jucstion that IJurns's poetical advocacy of 
his cause, however generous, was extremely imprudent in any (jovernment ofiicial 
in that time of keen political excitement. Mr. Heron carried the election.] 

Sir, Dumfries, 1794 or 1795. 

I enclose you .some copies of a couple of political ballads; one of 
which, I believe, you have never seen. Would to Heaven 1 could make 
you master of as many votes in the Stewartry! but — 

" Who doe.s the utmost that he can, 
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear with more effect on the foe, 
I have privately printed a good many copies of both ballads, and have 
sent them among friends all about the country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation of character, the utter 
dereliction of all principle, in a profligate junto, which has not only out- 
raged virtue, but violated common decency, spurning even hyijocrisy 
as paltry iniquity below tlicir daring ; — to unmask their flagitiousness 
to the broadest day — to deliver such over to their merited fate — is surely 
not merely innocent, but laudable ; is not only propriety, but virtue. You 
have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on the 
heads of your opponents ; and I swear b)' the lyre of Thalia to muster on 
your side all the votaries of honest laughter and f;iir, candid ridicule! 

1 am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my interests in 
a letter which Mr. Syme showed me. At present my situation in life must 
be in a great measure stationary, at least for two or three years. The 
statement is this : I am on the supervisors' list, and as we come on there 
by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of that list, and 
be appointed of coarse. Than a friend might be of service to me in 
getting me into a place of the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's 
income varies from about a hundred and twenty to two hundred a year ; 
bat the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete 
bar to every species of literarv pursuit. The moment I am appointed 
supervisor, in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's 
list; and this is always a business purely of political patronage. A col- 
lectorship varies much, from better than two hundred a year to near a 
•thousand. They also come forward by precedency on the list; and have, 
besides a handsome income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary 
leisure, with a decent competency, is the summit of my wishes. It would 
be the prudish affectation of silly pride in me to say that I do not need, or 
would not be indebted to, a j)olitical friend : at the same time, Sir, I by no 
means lay my aifairs before you thus, to hook my dependant situation on 



55^ THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



your benev'olence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur 
where the good offices of a gentleman of your public character and politi- 
cal consequence might bring me forward, I shall petition your goodness 
with the same frankness as I now do myself the honour to subscribe 
myself, — R. B. 

No. CCCXI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

[Enclosing " How cruel are the Parents," and " Mark yonder Pomp."] 

. . Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders ; 
your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit of 
poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If 
you can in a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating potion of 
your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrenzy to any height 
you want. I am at this moment " holding high converse " with the Muses, 
and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 

No. CCCXII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present ; ^ though I am ashamed 
of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not by any means 
merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown it to two or three 
judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing it 
as a first-rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very 
joiner's apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel (1 
was out of town that day) knew it at once. My mo-^t grateful compliments 
to Allan, who has honoured my rustic muse so much with his masterly 
pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the 
felonious attempt on the cat's tail is the most striking likeness of an ill- 
deedie, d — n'd wee rumble-gairie urchin of mine, whom, from that propen- 
sity to witty wickedness and manfu' mischief which even at twa days auld 
I foresaw would form the striking features of his disposition, I named 
Willie Nicol ; after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the masters of 
a grammar-school in a city which shall be nameless. 

No. CCCXIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

In "Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my Lad," the iteration of that line is 
tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement : — 

^ The picture alluded to was painted by David Allan from the "Cotter's Saturday Night" : it 
displays at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist. The scene is a .solemn one: 
but the sere.iity of the moment is disturbed by what some esteem as a beauty — namely, the attempt 
to cut the tip of the cat's tail by the little merry urchin seated on the floor. — Allan Cunningham. 



THE LE T TENS OF B URNS. 557 

" O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; 
Tho' father, and mother, and a' should gae mad. 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad." 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the Priest of the Nine, offer up 
the incense of Parnassus ; a dame, whom the Graces have attired in 
witchcraft, and wliom the Loves have armed with Hghtning ; a fair one, 
herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her 
commands if you dare ! 



No. CCCXIV. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Mr. Burns's compliments to Mrs. Riddel ; is much obliged to her for 
her polite attention in sending him the book. Owing to Mr. B. being at 
present acting as supervisor of Excise, a department that occupies his 
every hour of the day, he has not that time to spare which is necessary 
for any bclle-letlre pursuit ; but, as he will, in a week or two, again return 
to his wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention to Mrs. R.'s beautiful 
song, "To thee, loved Nith," which it so well deserves. When " Ana- 
charsis' Travels " come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel mentioned as her gift 
to the puljlic library, Mr. B. will feel honoured by the indulgence of a 
perusal of them before presentation : it is a book he has never yet seen, 
and the regulations of the library allow too little leisure for deliberate 
reading. 

Friday Evening. 

P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged to Mrs Riddel if she will favour 
him with a perusal of any of her poetical pivjces which he may not have 
seen. 



No. CCCXV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

My dear Friend, ^ith December, 1795. 

As 1 am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, 
as even the Deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only 
one i shall mention, because I know you will sympathize in it : these four 
months a sweet little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every 
day a week or less threatened to terminate her existence. There had 
much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and 
father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe 
to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a 
train of helpless little folks; me and my exertions all their stay: and on 
what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If 1 am nipt off at the 
command of fate! even in all the vig-our of manhood as I am — such 



558 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 



things happen everv day — gracious God! what would become of my 
little" flock! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. A father on 
his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe 
enousjh ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and diughters 
independency and friends, while I — but 1 shall run distracted it I think 
any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots 
ballad — 

" O that I had ne'er been married! 
I would never had nae care : 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 
They cry crowdie ! evermair. 

Crowdie! ance; crowdie! twice; 

Crowdie! three times in a day; 
An ye, crowdie! ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie ! a' my meal away." 



December i^th. 

We have had a brilliant theatre here this season ; only, as all other 
business does, it experiences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the country, •zcw//^ of cash. I mentioned our theatre merely 
to lug in an occasional Address wliich 1 wrote for the benefit-night of one 
of the actresses, and which is as follows : — 

[Here the Address is transcribed. See page II2.] 

'2~,th, Christinas JMoruing. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes ; accept mine — so 
Heaven hear me as they are sincere! — that blessings may attend ;,our 
steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my 
favourite author, " The Man of Feeling,"' " May the Great Spirit bear up 
the weight of thy grey hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them rest ! " 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowperpi Is not the 
"Task"' a glorious poem? The religion of the "Task," bating a few 
.scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and jiature ; the 
religion that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your 
" Zeluco"' in return for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and notes 
through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I, were 
cX liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

1 have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, all my letters ; I mean 
those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote cut 
fair. On looking over some old musty papers, which, from time to time, 
I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, and which 
yet at the same time I did not care to destroy, I discoveVed many of 
these rude sketches, and have written, and am writing them out, in a 

■ Burns generally carried Cowper's " Task " in bis pocket, and took it out when he found him- 
^cll m a lonelv road, or \n a brewhouse where be had to wait sometimes tT " frauge the hrowst." 
1 he copy which he used wns one lent to him by Mrs. Dunlop, the margins of which he enriched 
with notes, critical and commendatory. 



THE LE TTERS OF B URNS. 559 

bound MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote always to you the rhap- 
sody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you except one, about 
the commencement of our acquaintance. If there were any possible 
conveyance, 1 would send you a perusal of my book. — R. B. 



No. CCCXVI. 
TO MR.S. DUNLOP, 

IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, ■20th December, 1795. 

I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of yours. 
In the first place, when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was in the 
country, and did not return until too late to answer your letter ; in the 
ne.xt place, I thought you would certainly take this route ; and now I 
know not what has become of you, or whether this may reach you at all. 
God grant that it may find you and yours in prospering health and good 
spirits ! Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall every 
leisure hour take up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, prose 
or poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I have abounded of late. 
I have often mentioned to you a superb publication of Scottish Songs, 
which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and where I 
have the honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage 
than Peter Pindar does over the English. 

December 2()ih. 

Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the capacity 
of supervisor here ; and I assure you, what with the load of business, and 
what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have com- 
manded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much 
less to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, 
and during the illness of tlie present incumbent; but I look forward to an 
early period wh^n I shall be appointed in full form — a consummation 
devoutly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be forgiven me. 

This is the season (New-year's-day is now my date) of wishing ; and 
mine are most fervently offered up for you. May life to you be a positive 
blessing while it lasts, tor your own sake ; and that it may yet be greatly 
prolonged is my wish, for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of 
your friends ! What a transient business is life ! Very lately I was a 
boy; but t'other clay I was a young man; and I already begin to feel the 
rigid fibre and stittening joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. 
With all my follies of youth, and I fear a few vices of manhood, still I 
congratulate myself on having had in early days religion strongly 
impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one as to which sect 
he belongs to, or what creed he believes : but 1 look on the man who is 
firmly persuaded of infinite Wisdom and (xoodness superintending and 
directing every circumstance that can happen in his lot — I felicitate such 



560 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



a man, as having a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop 
and sure stay in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress ; and a never- 
failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond the grave. 

January \-zih. 

You will have seen our virorthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, long 
ere this. I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have 
just been reading over again, I daresay for the hundred and fiftieth time, 
his "View of Society and Manners"; and still I read it with delight. 
His humour is perfectly original : it is neither the humour of Addison, 
nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of anybody but Dr. Moore. By the by, you 
have deprived me of " Zeluco " : remember that, when you are disposed 
to rake up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by c]uoting me in his last 
publication. — R. B. 

No. CCCXVII. 

TO THE HON. THE PROVOST, BAILIES, AND TOWN COUNCIL 
OF DUMFRIES. 

Gentlemen, [1795-] 

The literary taste and liberal spirit of your good town has so ably 
filled the various departments of your schools, as to make it a very great 
objoct for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still, to me, a 
stranger, with my large family and very stinted income, to give my young 
ones that education I wish, at the high school fees which a stranger pays, 
will bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did mc the honour of making me an 
honorary Ikugess. Will you allow me to request that this mark of dis- 
tinction m:\y extend so far as to put me on a footing of a real freeman of 
the town in the schools? 

That I may not appear altogether unworthy of this favour allow me to 
state to you some little services I have lately done a branch of your 
revenue — the two pennies exigible on foreign ale vended within your 
limits. In this rather neglected article of your income, I am ready to 
show that within these few weeks my exertions have secured for you of 
those duties nearly the sum of Ten Pounds ; and in this, too. I was the 
only one ot the gentlemen of the Excise (except Mr. Mitchell, whom you 
pay \ox his trouble) who took the least concern in the business. 

li you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will certainly be a 
constant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially serve 
you, t-.nd will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with which I have 
the honour to be. 

Gentlemen, 

Your devoted humble Servant, 

R. B.' 

f, vn I, I*"" °K '''"■''' ^'^'^^ "['^'' '''"^' ''J" '*^= '^"""'^ Museum. Cromek, who first published it 
wiih ''"*'-"^'-''' ''^"^ 'hird paragraph) states that the poet's request was immediately complied 



No. CCCXVIII. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Dumfries, loih January, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you for allowing me a longer perusal 
of " Anacharsis." In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched me so 
much ; and I, as a member of the library, must warmly feel the obligation 
you have laid us under. Indeed, to me the obligation is stronger than to 
any other individual of our society; as " Anacharsis " is an indispensable 
desideratum to a son of the Muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's card is, I think, flown 
from me for ever. I have not been able to leave my bed to-day till about 
an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) 
to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

R. B. 

No. CCCXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[There seems about this time to have been some coldness between Burns 
and Mrs. Dunlop, probably caused by her displeasure at his confirmed habits of 
conviviality.] 

Dumfries, -yist January, 1796. 

These many months you have been two packets in my debt : what sin 
of ignorance I have committed against so highly valued a friend I am 
utterly at a loss to guess. Alas, Madam ! ill can I afford, at this time, to 
be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately 
drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only 
daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as 
to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely 
begun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a 
most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; until, after 
many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am 
beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been before 
m}' own door in the street. 

" When pleasure fascinates the mental sight. 
Affliction purifies the visual ray. 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night, 
And shuts, for ever shuts, life's doubtful day." 

R. B. 

No. CCCXX. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

[WTio had desired him to go to the Birthday Assembly on that day to show his 
loyalty.] 

Dumfries, i,th June, 1796. 

I AM in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my 
loyalty in any way. Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face 
with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam: "Come, curse me Jacob; 
and come, defy me Israel ! " So say I : Come, curse me that east wind ; 



562 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

E and come, defy me tlic north ! Would you have me in such circumstances 
copy you out a love-song? 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball. Why 
should 1? "Man delights not me, nor woman either !" Can you supply 
me with the song, " Let us all be unhappy together? " — do if you can, and 
oblige le paiivre miserable. — R. B. 

No. CCCXXI. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 

Alas ! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be sometime ere I tune my lyre 
again! " By Babel's streams I have sat and wept" almost ever since I 
wrote you last. I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavj' 
hand of sickness ; and have counted time by the repercussions of pain. 
Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. 
I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the 
vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson — 

" Say, wherefore has an ill-indulgent Heaven 
Light to ihe comfortless and wretched given?" 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe 
Tavern here, which for these many years has been my ho\\'fr,' and where 
our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly 
delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. " Woo'd and married an' a'" is 
admirable ! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the 
figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolute!)- faultless 
perfection. I next admire " Turnimspike." What I like least is "Jenny 
said to Jocky." Besides the female being in her appearance quite a virago, 
if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller 
than her lover. 

Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely sympathize with him ! Happy I am to 
think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in 
this world. As for me — but that is a damning subject ! 

No. CCCXXII. 

TO G. THOMSON'). 

1 HAVE no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy 
to review them all, and possibly may send some of them; so, when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you for cither the originals or 
copies. I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten 
otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching 
summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. 
I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad 
business ! 

' The " howff" of which Bums speaks was a small, comfortable tavern, situated in the mouth 
of the Globe close, and it held at that time the rank as third among the houses of public accommo- 
dation in Dumfries. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 563 



This should have been dcHvered to you a month ago. I am still very 
poorly, but should much like to hear from you. 

No. CCCXXIII. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

EDINBURGH. 

[About May 17, 1796.] 

How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume? 
You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you 
and your work ; but, alas ! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has 
these many months lain heavy on me ! Personal and domestic affliction 
have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to 
woo the rural Muse of Scotia. In the meantime let us finish what we 
have so well begun. The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particular friend of 
mine, will bring out any proofs (if they are ready") or any message you 
may have. Farewell! — R. B. 

\Turn fl7ier.} 
[About Juiie 17.] 

You should have had this when Mr. Lewars called on you, but his 
saddle-bags miscarried. I am extremely an.xious for your work, as, 
indeed, I am for everything concerning you and your welfare. You are 
a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world 
— because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has 
given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This 
protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me will, I doubt 
much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his 
middle career, and will turn over the poet to far more important concerns 
than studying the brilliancy of wit or the pathos of sentiment ! However, 
hope /\'s, the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as 
well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. Your work is a great 
one ; and now that it is near finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two 
or three things tliat might be mended ; yet I will venture to prophesy, 
tliat to future ages your publication will be the text-book and standard of 
Scottish song and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so 
very good already ; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a 
young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the " Scots 
Musical Museum." If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as 
to send it by the very first fly, as I am anxious to have it soon. 

Yours ever, 

R. B. 

[In this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work of 
which he was principally the founder, and to which he had contributed, gratuitously, 
not less than 184 original, altered, and collected songs! The Editor has seen 



564 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

180 transcribed by his own hand for the Rluseuin. This letter was written on the 
4th of July — the Poet died on the 21st. — Croiuek. A fac-simile of this interesting 
letter is given in the latest edition of Johnson's Museum, 1839. The date " July 4," 
affirmed by Cromek, is conjectural and evidently wrong.] 

No. CCCXXIV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-Bathing Quarters, ^th July, 1796. 

My dear Cunningham, 

I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered 
with the approbation of the literary circle you mention — a literary circle 
inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! my friend, I fear the voice 
of the bard will soon be heard among you no more ! For these eight or 
ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed-fast and sometimes not ; 
but these last three months 1 have been tortured with an excruciating 
rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually 
would not know me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble as 
occasionally to need help from my chair — my spirits fled! fled! — but I 
can no more on the subject — only the medical folks tell me that my last 
and only chance is bathing, and country quarters, and riding. The deuce 
of the matter is this: when an exciseman is off duty, liis salary is reduced 
to 35/. instead of 50/. What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain 
myself, and keep a horse in country quarters, with a wife and five children 
at home, on 35/.? I mention this, because I had intended to beg your 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can muster, to move our 
Commissioners of Excise to grant me the full salary ; ^ I dare say you 
know them all personally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my 
account with an exit truly en pocie — if I die not of disease, I must perish 
with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other my memory does not 
serve me with, and I have no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when I will send it to you. Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns 
threatens in a week or two to add one more to my paternal charge, which, 
if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the 
respectable designation of Alexander Cj/nnhig/iam Burns. My last was 
yames Glencairn, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. 
Farewell. — R. B. 

No. CCCXXV. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Dear Brother, -^^th jniy, 1796. 

It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am 

dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism 

has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally 

gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea- 

* The Poet's humble request of the continuance of his full salary was not granted. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 565 

bathing, and I will continue there, or in a. friend's house in the country, 
all the summer. God keep my wife and children ! if I am taken from 
their head, they will be poor indeed. I have contracted one or two serious 
debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from too much 
thoughtlessness as to expense when I came to town, that will cut in too 
much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember me to my 
mother. 

Yours. 

R. B. 
No. CCCXXVI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

My dear Sir, Brow, 4M July. 

I received your songs : but my health is so precarious, nay, danger- 
ously situated, that as a last effort I am here at sea-bathing quarters. 
Besides my inveterate rheumatism, my appetite is quite gone, and I am so 
emaciated as to be scarce able to support myself on my own legs ! Alas ! 
is this a time for me to woo the Muses.'' However, I am still anxiously 
willing to serve your work, and, if possible, shall try. I would not like to 
see another employed, unless you could lay your hand upon a poet whose 
productions would be equal to the rest. You will see my remarks and 
alterations on the margin of each song. My address is still Dumfries. 
Farewell, and God bless you ! — R. B. 

[The handwriting of this note is smaller and less steady than the other letters 
■ — like the writing of one who, in the interval, had become an old man. — 
Robert Cliamliers.'\ 

No. cccxxvn. 

TO MRS. BURNS. 

My dearest Love, Brow, Thursday. 

I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing 
was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased my 
pains, and I think has strengthened me : but my appetite is still extremely 
bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow: porridge and milk are the only 
things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that 
you are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to 
jill the children. I will see you on Sunday. 

Your affectionate Husband, 

R. B. 

No. cccxxvin. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Brow, Saturday, 12th July, 1796. 

I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I 
would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long hung about me in all probability will speedily 



566 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



send me beyond that bourn whence no traveller returns. Your friendship 
with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to 
my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at 
once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use 
to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my 
poor palpitating heart. Farewell! ! ! — R. B. 



No. CCCXXIX. 
TO MR. JAMES BURNES. 

WRITER, MONTROSE. 
My dear Cousin, Dumfries, 12^// July. 

When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should 
want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable 
bill, taking it into his head that 1 am dying, has commenced a process 
against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you 
be so good as to- accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten 
pounds? O, James ! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel 
doubly for me. Alas ! I am not used to beg. The worst of it is, my 
health was coming about finely ; you know, and my physician assured me, 
that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease : guess, then, my 
horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, 
quite well in a manner. How shall I use the language to you, O do not 
disappoint me ! but strong necessity's curst command. 

I have been thinking over and over my brother's affairs, and I fear I 
must cut him up ; but on this I will correspond at another time, partica 
larly as 1 shall [require] your advice. 

Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post ; — save me from 
the horrors of a jail ! 

My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know 
what I have written. The subject is so horrible, I dare not look it over 
again. Farewell, i— R. B. 

No. CCCXXX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway Frith, \ith July, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to 
implore you for five pounds. - A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom 
I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced 

' James Burnes sent his cousin ten pounds the moment he received his letter, and shortly 
afterwards (June 29) five pounds to the poet's widow, offering at the same time to bring up and 
educate her son Robert, if she was disposed to part with him. Such substantial kindness is 
worthy of special notice. 

- I'he dying Poet wrote entreatingly for five pounds, and Thomson sent the exact sum which he 
requested, from inability to send more; or, as he avers, from a dread of giving offence to the 
sensitive mind of Burns. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 567 



a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me 
that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but 
the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this 
gratuitously; for, upon returning health, 1 hereby promise and engage to 
furnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest song-genius you have 
seen. I tried my hand on " Rothemurche " this morning. The measure 
is so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; 
they are on the other side. (" Full well thou know'st." Page 197.) For- 
give, forgive me ! 

No. CCCXXXI. 

TO JAMES GRACIE, ESQ. 

[This is in answer to an offer on the part of Mr. Gracie, a banker in Dumfries, 
to send a post-chaise to bring Burns home.] 

My dear Sir, Brow, Wednesday Morning, \(>th July, 1796. 

It would [be] doing high injustice to this place not to acknowledge 
that my rheumatisms have derived great benefits from it already ; but, 
alas! my loss of appetite still continues. I shall not need your kind offer 
this week, and I return to town the beginning of next week, it not being a 
tide week. I am detaining a man in a burning hurry ; so, God bless you ! 

R. B. 



No. CCCXXXII. 
TO MR. JAMES ARxMOUR, 

MAUCHLINE. 
My dear Sir, Dumfries, \Wt July, 1796. 

Do, for Heaven's sake, send Mrs. Armour here immediately. My 
wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. Good God! what a situation 
for her to be in, poor girl,' without a friend ! I returned from sea-bathing 
quarters to-day, and my medical friends would almost persuade me that 
I am better ; but I think and feel that my strength is so gone that the 
disorder will prove fatal to me. 

Your Son-in-law, 

R. B. 

* Mrs. Burns was in the 29th year of her age. 



THE BORDER TOUR. 

[The notes which Burns kept jotting down thus, from day to day, of two tours — 
one through the Border counties and the other through the Highlands — are so 
characteristic that we append them to the Letters. Burns's companion during part 
of the Border tour was Mr. Robert Ainslie, a clever, gay, rollicking young fellow — 
then a writer's apprentice, afterwards a writer in Edinburgh. The pair travelled on 
horseback.] 

Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787.) — Lammermuir hills miserably dreary, 
but at times very picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. 
— Reach Berrywell [near Dunse] — old Mr. Ainslie an uncommon char- 
acter ; his hobbies agriculture, natural philosophy, and politics. In the 
first he is unexceptionally the clearest-headed, best-informed man I ever 
met with; in the other two very intelligent. As a man of business he 
has uncommon merit, and by fairly deserving it has made a very decent 
independence. Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, amiable, old 
woman. Miss Ainslie — her person a little o/iboiipoiiii, but handsome ; her 
face, particularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good humour. She unites 
three qualities rarely to be found together: keen, solid penetration; .sly, 
witty observation and remark ; and the gentlest, most unaffected female 
modesty. Douglas, a clever, promising young fellow. The family- 
meeting with their brother, my coinpagnon de voyage, very charming, 
particularly the sister. The whole family remarkably attached to their 
menials — Mrs. A. full of stories of the sagacity and sense of the little girl 
in the kitchen ; Mr. A. high in the praises of an African, his house- 
servant : all his people old in his service — Douglas's old nurse came to 
Berrywell yesterday to remind them of its being his birthday. 

A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy remarkable character — ■ 
natural penetration, a great deal of imformation, some genius, and extreme 
modesty. 

Sunday- — Went to church at Dunse. Dr Bowmaker a man of strong 
lungs and pretty juaicious remark ; but ill skilled in propriety, and 
altogether unconscious of his want of it. 

Monday. — Coldstream — went over to England — Cornhill, glorious river 
Tweed — clear and majestic — tine bridge. Dine at Coldstream with Mr. 
Ainslie and Mr. Foreman — beat Mr. F. in a dispute about Voltaire. 
Tea at Lenel House with Mr. Brydone. Mr. Brydone a most excellent 
heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent : but a good deal of the French 



THE BORDER TOUR. 569 



indiscriminate complaisance — from his situation past and present, an 
admirer of everything that bears a splendid title, or that possesses a 
large estate.^ Mrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her person and 
manners ; the tones of her voice remarkably sweet — my reception 
extremely flattering — sleep at Coldstream. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of Kelso — fine 
bridge over the Tweed — enchanting views and prospects on both sides of 
the river, particularly the Scotch side; introduced to Mr. Scott of the 
Royal Bank, an excellent, modest fellow — fine situation of it — ruins of 
Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush growing where James II. of Scotland was 
accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious 
ruin, and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and 
destroyed by an Engli:>h Hottentot, a 7itai(re d7io(el of the Duke's, a Mr. 
Cole. Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, supe- 
rior to Ayrshire — bad roads. Turnip and sheep husbandry, their great 
improvements — Mr. M'Dowal, at Caverton Mill, a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, 
with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, ewe and lamb together, at two 
guineas apiece — wash their sheep before shearing — seven or eight 
pounds of washen wool in a fleece — low markets, consequently low rents 
— fine lands not aI)ove sixteen shillings a Scotch acre — magnificence 
of farmers and farm-houses — come up Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to 
lie, and so wish myself a good night. 

Wednesday. — Breakfast with Mr. in Jedburgh- — ^a squabble be- 
tween Mrs. , a crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of liers, an old 

maid, respecting a relief minister — Miss gives Madam the lie; and 
Madam, by way of revenge, upbraids her that she laid snares to entangle 
the said minister, then a widower, in the net of matrimony. Go about 
two miles out of Jedburgh to a roup of parks — meet a polite, soldier-like 
gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who had been many years through the 
wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians — charming, romantic 
situation of Jedburgh, with gardens, orchards, Sec, intermingled among the 
houses — fine old ruins — a once magnificent cathedral, and strong castle. 
All the towns here have the appearance of old, rude grandeur, but the 
people extremely idle — Jed a fine romantic little river. 

Dine with Capt. Rutherford — the Captain a polite fellow, fond of money 
in his farming way; showed a particular respect to my hardship — his lady 
exactly a proper matrimonial second part for him. Miss Rutherford a 
beautiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so much of a fine swelling 
bosom — her face very fine. 

Return to Jedburgh — walk up Jed with some ladies to be shown Love- 
lane and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, 

' Mr. P.rydoiie had been travelling tutor to several men of rank, and was the author of " A Tour 
in Sicily and Malta." In after years Scott visited Brydone, and in Marmion speaks of him as a 
" reverend pilgrim," 

" Well worth the whole Bernardine brood 
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood." 



570 THE BORDER TOUR. 



a very clever fellow ; and Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the place, a 
man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. The walking 

party of ladies : Mrs. and Miss her sister, before mentioned. 

N. B. These two appear still more comfortably ugly and stupid, and 

bore me most shockingly. — Two Miss , tolerably agreeable. Miss 

Hope, a tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. Miss Lindsay, a 
good-humoured, amiable girl ; rather short et embonpoint, but handsome 
and extremely graceful — beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, and sparkling 
with delicious moisture — an engaging face — 2<n tout ensemble that speaks 
her of the first order of female minds. Her sister, a bonie, strappan, 
rosy, sonsie lass. Shake myself loose, after several unsuccessful ettbrts, 

of Mrs. and Miss , and somehow or other get hold of Miss 

Lindsay's arm. My heart is thawed into melting pleasure after being so 
long frozen up in the Greenland Bay of inditference, amid the noise and 
nonsense of Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with my bardship's 
distinguishing her, and after some slight qualms, which I could easily 
mark, she sets the titter round at defiance, and kindly allows me to keep 
my hold ; and when parted by the ceremony of my introduction to Mr. 
Somerville, she met me half, to resume my situation. — N'ota Bene. The 
Poet within a point and a half of being d-mnably in love — I am afraid my 
bosom is still nearly as much tinder as ever. 

The old, cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slanderous Miss , with all 

the poisonous spleen of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me very 
unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, by falling abusively foul on the 
Miss Lindsays, particularly on my Dulcinea ; — I hardly refrain from 
cursing her to her face for daring to mouth her calumnious slander on 
one of the finest pieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excellence ! Sup 

at Mr. 's ; vexed that the Miss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, 

as they only are wanting. Mrs. and Miss still improve infernally 

on my hands. 

Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat of my correspondent, 
Mrs. Scott — breakfast by the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good- 
hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the medical line; now retired to a 
romantic but rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole — he 
accompanies us almost to Wauchope — we traverse the country to the 
top of Bochester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolce Hill. 

Wauchope. ■ — Mr. Scott exactly the figure and face commonly given to 
Sancho Panca — very shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfrequently 
stumbles on what may be called a strong thing rather than a good thing. 
Mrs. Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, and bold, critical 
decision, which usually distinguish female authors. Sup with Mr. Potts — 
agreeable party. Breakfast next morning with Mr. Somerville— the bruit 
of Miss Lindsay and my hardship, by means of the invention and malice 

of Miss . Mr. Somerville sends to Dr. Lindsay; begging him and 

family to breakfast if convenient, but at all events to send Miss Lindsay; 
accordingly Miss Lindsay only comes. I find Miss Lindsay would soon 
play the devil with me — I met with some little flattering attentions from 
her. Mrs. Somerville an excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a fine 






THE BORDER TOUR. 571 



family. Mr. Ainslle and Mrs. S. junrs., with Mr. , Miss Lindsay, and! 

myself, go to see Esther, a very remarkable woman for reciting poetry of all i 
kmds, and sometimes making Scotch doggrel herself: she can repeat by-. 
heart almost everything she has ever read, particularly Pope's Homer ^ 
from end to end ; has studied Euclid by herself; and, in short, is a woman ; 
of very extraordinary abilities. On conversing v/ith her I find her fully - 
equal to the character given of her. She is very much flattered that I i 
send for her, and that she sees a poet who has "put out a book," as shea 
says. She is, among other things, a great florist — and is rather past thj ; 
meridian of once celebrated beauty. 

I walk in Eslhe7-'s garden with Miss Lindsay, and after some little chit- j 
chat of the tender kind, 1 presented her with a proof print of my Nob, \ 
which she accepted with something more tender than gratitude. She told j 

me many little stories which Miss had retailed concerning her and| 

me, with prolonging pleasure — God bless her! Was waited on by thel 
magistrates, and presented with the freedom of the burgh. | 

Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy, disagreeable sensa-l 
tions. — Jed, pure be thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan banks ! f 
Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom, uninterrupted! 
except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love ! That love-kind- J 
ling eye must beam on another, not on me ; that graceful form must bless '\ 
another's arms, not mine ! \ 

Kelso. — Dine with the farmers' club — all gentlemen, talking of high i 
matters — each of them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds' value, ij 
and attends the fox-huntings in the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of j 
the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to lie — Mr. Ker a most gentlemanly, J 
clever, handsome fellow, a widower with some fine children — his manner! 
astonishingly like my clear old friend Robert Muir, in Kilmarnock — every- 1 
thing in Mr. Ker's most elegant — he otfers to accompany me in my English i 
tour. Dine with Sir Alexander Don — a pretty clever fellow, but far from'; 
being a match for his divine lady. A very wet day. . . . Sleep at Stod-.i 
rig again ; and set out for Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old mined abbey | 
— 'Still bad weather — cross Leader, and come up Tweed to Melrose — dine^ 
there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — come to Selkirk, up Ettrick ; ; 
the whole country hereabout, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony. ; 

Monday. — Come to Inverleithing, a famous shaw, and in the vicinity of; 
the palace of Traquair, where having dined, and drank some Galloway* 
whev, 1 here remain till to-morrow. Saw Elibanks and Elibraes, on the; 
other side of the Tweed. j 

Tuesday. — Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with Mr. Horsburgh.i 
Breakfasted to-day with Mr. Ballantyne of Hollowlee. Proposal for afl 
four-horse team, to consist of Mr. Scott of Wauchope, Fittieland ; Logani 
of Logan, Fittiefurr; Ballantinc of Hollowlee, Forewynd ; Horsburgh of| 
Horsburgh. Dine at a country inn, kept by a miller, in Earlston, the| 
birlh-place and residence of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer — saw the^ 
ruins of his castle — come to Berrywell. 

i 



572 THE BORDER TOUR. 

Wednesday. — Dine at Dunse with the farmers' club-company — impos- 
sible to do them justice. Rev. Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. Meilcle 
a celebrated meclianic, and inventor of the threshing-mills. 

Thursday. — Breakfast at Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous 
knife made by a cutler there, and to be presented to an Italian prince. A 
pleasant ride with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie and his sister to Mr. 
Thomson's, a man who has newly commenced farmer, and has married a 
Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert Ainslie's. Company — 
Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson's, and Mr. Hood, 
an honest, worthy, facetious farmer in the neighbourhood. 

Friday. — Ride to Berwick — an idle town, rudely picturesque. Meet 
Lord Errol in walking round the walls — his lordship's flattering notice of 
me. Dine with Mr. Clunzie, merchant — nothing particular in company 
or conversation. Come up a bold shore, and over a wild country, to 
Eyemouth — sup and sleep at Mr. Grieve's. 

Saturday. — Spend the day at Mr. Grieve's — made a royal arch mason 
of St. Abb's Lodge. Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a joyous, 
warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow — takes a hearty glass, and sings a good 
song. Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, a good fellow, but 
says little. Take a sail after dinner. Fishing of all kinds pays tithes at 
Eyemouth. 

Sunday. — A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, sets out with us to Dunbar. 
The Miss Grieves very good girls — my hardship's heart got a brush from 
Miss Betsey. 

Mr. William Grieve's attachment to the family-circle so fond, that when 
he is out, which by the by is often the case, he cannot go to bed till he 

see if all his sisters are sleeping well Pass the famous Abbey of Cold- 

ingham, and Pease-bridge. Call at Mr. Sheriff's, where Mr. A. and I 
dine. Mr. S. talkative and conceited. I talk of love to Nancy the whole 
evening, while her brother escorts home some companions like himself. 
Sir James Hall of Dunglass, having heard of my being in the neighbour- 
hood, comes to Mr. Sheriffs to breakfast — takes me to see his fine scenery 
on the stream of Dunglass — Dunglass the most romantic, sweet place I 
ever saw — Sir James and his lady a pleasant happy couple. He points out 
a walk for which he has an uncommon respect, as it was made by an aunt 
of his, to whom he owes much. 

Miss will accompany me to Dunbar, bv way of making a parade 

of me as a sweetheart of hers, among her relations. She mounts an old 
cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house ; a rusty old side-saddle, with- 
out girth or stirrup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth ; herself as 
fine as hands could make her, in cream-coloured riding clothes, hat and 
feather, &c. 1, ashamed of my situation, ride like the devil, and almost 
shake her to pieces on old Jolly — get rid of her by refusing to call at her 
uncle's with her. 



THE BORDER TOUR. 573 



Passed through tlie most glorious corn-country I ever "saw, till I reach 
Dunbar, a neat little town. — Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent merchant 
and most respectable character, but undescribable, as he exhibits no marked 
traits. Mrs. Fall a genius in painting ; fully more clever in the fine arts 
and sciences than my friend Lady Wauchope, without her consummate 
assurance of her own abilities. — Call with Mr. Robinson (who, by the by, 
I find to be a worthy, much-respected man, very modest ; warm, social 
heart, which with less good sense than his would be perhaps, with the 
children of prim precision and pride, rather inimical to that respect which 
is man's due from man ) — with him I call on Miss Clark, a maiden, in the 
Scotch phrase, " guid enough, but no brent new " : a clever woman, with 
tolerable pretensions to remark and wit; while time had blown the 
blushing bud of bashful modesty into the flower of easy confidence. 
Sh'j wanted to see what sort of 7-aree slunv an author was, and to let liim 
know, that though Dunbar was but a little town, yet it was not destitute 
of people of parts. 

breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr. Lee's, a farmer of great 
note. Mr. Lee an excellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish ; warm- 
hearted and chatty — a most judicious, sensible farmer. Mr. Lee detains 
me till next morning. Company at dinner — my Rev. acquaintance Dr. 
Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling old fellow ; two sea-lieutenants : a cousin 
of the landlord's, a fellow whose looks are of that kind which deceived me 
in a gentleman at Kelso, and has often deceived me — a goodly handsome 
figure and face, which incline one to give them credit for parts which they 
have not ; Mr. Clarke, a much cleverer fellow, but whose looks, a little 
cloudy, and his appearance, rather ungainly, with an every-day observer 
may prejudice the opinion against him; Dr. Brown, a medical young 
gentleman from Dunbar, a fellow whose face and manners are open and 

engaging. Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day. along with Collector , 

a lad of slender abilities and bashfully diffident to an extreme. 

Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sensible, the good-humoured, the 
sweet Miss Ainslie, all alone at Berryweli. Heavenly powers, who know 
tha weakness of human hearts, support mine ! What happiness must I see 
only to remind me that I cannot enjoy it ! 

Lammermuir hills, from East Lothian to Dunse, very wild. Dine with 
the f.xrmers' club at Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. Lumsden there, but 
notUng worth remembrance when the following circumstance is con- 
sidered — I walk into Dunse before dinner, and out to Berryweli in the 
evening with Miss Ainslie — how ill-bred, how frank, how good she is 
Charming Rachael ! may thy bosom never be wrung by the evils of this 
life of sorrows, or by the villany of this world's sons ! 

Thursday. — Mr. Ker and I set out to dine at Mr. Hood's on our way to 
England. 

I am taken extremely ill, with strong feverish symptoms, and take a 
servant of Mr. Hood's to watch me all night — embittering remorse scares 
my fancy at the gloomy forebodings of death. I am determined to live for 
the future in such a manner as not to be scared at the approach of death : 



574 THE BORDER TOUR. 



I am sure I could meet him with indifFerencc, but for " the something 
beyond the grave." Mr. Hood agrees to accompany us to England if we 
will wait till Sunday. 

Friday. — I go with Mr. Hood to sec a roup of an unfortunate farmer's 
stock — rigid economy and decent industry, do you preserve me from 
being the principal dratnalis persona in such a scene of horror ! 

Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who calls on Mr. Hood in the 
evening to take fiirewcll of my hardship. This day I feel myself warm 
with sentiments of gratitude to the Cireat I'reserver of men, who has kindly 
restored me to health and strengtii once more. 

A pleasant walk with my young iViend Douglas Ainslie, a sweet, 
modest, clever young feilow. 

Sunday, 2yth May. — Cross Tweed, and traverse the moors through a 
wild country till I reach Alnwick — Alnwick Castle a .seat of the Duke of 
Northumberland', furnished in a most princely manner. — A Mr. Wilkin, 
agent of his Grace's, shows us the house and policies — Mr. Wilkin a 
di.screet, sensible, ingenious man. 

Monday. — Come, still through by-ways, to Warkworth, where we dine. 
Hermitage and old castle. Warkworth situated \ery picturesque, with 
Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, the scat of an old monastery, facing it a 
little in the sea; and the small but romantic river Coquet running through 
it. Sleep at Morpeth, a pleasant enough little town, and on next day to 
Newcastle. Meet with a very agreeable, sensible fellow, a Mr. Chatto.x, 
who shows us a great many civilities, and who dines and sups with us. 

Wednesday. — Left Newcastle early in the morning, and rode over a iine 
country to Hexham to breakfast — from Hexham toWardrue, the celebrated 
Spa, where we slept. 

Thursday. — Reach Longtown to dine, and part there with my good 
friends Messrs. Hood and Kcr — a hiring day in Longtown — I am uncom- 
monly happy to see so many young folks enjoying life. 1 come to Carlisle. 
(Meet a strange enough romantic adventure by the way, in falling in with 
a girl and her married sister : the girl, after some overtures of gallantry on 
my side, sees me a little cut with the bottle, and offers to take me in for a 
Gretna-green affair. I not being such a gull as she imagines, make an 
appointment with her, by way oi vh'e la bagatelle, to hold a conference on 
it when we reach town. I meet her in town and give her a brush of 
caressing and a bottle of cyd-;r; but finding herself iin pen tronipe in her 
man she sheers off.) Next day I meet my good friend Mr. Mitchell, and 
walk with him round the town and its environs, and through his printing- 
works. &c. — four or five hundred people employed, nv.ny of them women 
and children. Dine with Mr. Mitchell, and leave Carlisle. Come by the 
coast to Annan. Overtaken on the way by a curious old fish of a shoe* 
maker, and miner from Cumberland mines. 

[Here the Manuscript abruptly terminates ."] 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 

[Nicol, Burns's companion on this Highland expedition, was then an under 
teacher in the High School of Edinburgh. He was a Dumfriesshire man, of hum- 
ble birth, possessed considerable natural ability and scholarship, but was of a 
somewhat coarse, hot-tempered character.] 

2$ih August, 1787. — I leave Edinburgh for a northern tour, in company 
with my good friend Mr. Nicol, whose originality of humour promises 
me mucii entertainment. Linlithgow — a fertile improved country — West 
Lothian. Tlie more elegance and luxury among the farmers, I always 
observe, in equal proportion the rudeness and stupidity of the peasantry. 
This remark I have made all over the Lothians, Merse, Roxburgli, &c. 
For this, among other reasons, I think that a man of romantic taste, a 
" man of feeling," will be better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent 
minds, of the peasantry in Ayrshire (peasantry they are all below the 
justice of peace) than the opulence of a club of Merse formers, when at 
the .same time he considers the vandalism of their plougli-folks, &c. I 
carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, half-improven country is to me 
actually more agreeable, and gives me more pleasure as a prospect, 
than a country cultivated like a garden. — Soil about Linlithgow light 
and thin. The town carries the appearance of rude, decayed grandeur — 
charmingly rural, retired situation. The old royal palace a tolerably fine, 
but melancholy, ruin — sweetly situated on a small elevation, by the brink 
of' a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful, injured Mary Queen of 
Scots was born — a pretty good old Gothic church. The infamous stool 
of repentance standing, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. 

What a poor, pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship; 
dirty, narrow, and squalid ; stuck in a corner of old popish grandeur such 
as Linlithgow, and much more, Melrose! Ceremony and show, if judi- 
ciously thrown in, absolutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both iu 
religious and civil matters. — Dine — go to my friend .Smith's, at Avon, 
printfield — find nobody but Mrs. Miller, an agreeable, sensible, modest, 
good body; as useful ])ut not so ornamental as Fielding's Miss Western — . 
not rigidly polite a la Francais, but easy, hospitable, and housewifely. 

An old lady from Paisley, a Mrs. Lawson, wliom I promise to call for 
in Paisley : like old lady W , and still more like Mrs. C , her con- 
versation is pregnant with strong sense and just remark, but, like them, a 
certain air of .self-importance ancl a duresse in th^ eye seem to indicate, as 
the Ayrshire wife observed of her cow, that " she had a mind o' her ain." 



576 THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 



Pleasant view of Dumfermlinc and the rest of the fertile coast of Fife, 
as we go down to that dirty, ugly place, Burrowstones — see a horse-race 
and cali on a friend of Mr. NicoTs, a Bailie Cowan, of whom I know too 
little to attempt his portrait — come through the rich carse of P^ilkirk to 
pass the night. P"alkirk nothing remarkable except the tomb of Sir John 
the Graham, over wiiich, in the succession of time, four stones have been 
placed. Camelon, the ancient metropolis of the Picts, now a small village 
in the neighbourhood of Falkirk. Cross the grand canal to Carron — 
come past Larbert, and admire a fine monument of cast-iron erected by 
Mr. Bruce, the African traveller, to his wife. 

Pass Dunipacc, a place laid out with fine taste — a charming amphitheatre, 
bounded by Denny village, and pleasant seats down the way to Dunipace. 

— The Carron running down the bosom of the whole makes it one of the 
most charming little prospects I have seen. 

Dine at Auchinbowie — Mr. Monro an excellent, worthy old man • — Miss 
Monro an amiable, sensible, sweet young woman, much resembling Mrs. 
Grierson. Come to Bannockburn — shown the old house where James 
III. finished so tragically his unfortunate life. The field of Bannockburn 

— the hole where glorious Bruce set his standard. Here no Scot can pass 
uninterested. I fancy to m)self that I see my gallant, heroic countrymen 
coming o'er the hill and down upon the plunderers of their country, the 
murderers of their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every 
vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, 
insulting, blood-thirsty foe ! I see them meet in gloriously-triumphant 
congratulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader 
and rescued liberty and independence ! — Come to Stirling. 

Monday. — Go to Harvicston. Go to see Caudron linn, and Rumbling 
brig, and DieFs mill. Return in the evening. Supper — Messrs. Doig, 
the schoolmaster; Bell; and Captain Forrester of the castle. Doig a 
queerish figure, and something of a pedant — Bell a joyous fellow, who 
sings a good song — Forrester a merry, swearing kind of man, with a 
dash of the sodger. 

Tuesday Monihi(^. — Breakfast with Ca]3tain Forrester — Ochel hills — 
Devon river — Forth and Tieth — Allan river — Strathallan, a fine country, 
but little improved — cross Earn to Crieft" — dine, and go to Arbruchil — 
cold reception at Arbruchil — a most romantically pleasant ride up Earn, by 
Auchtertyre and Comrie, to Arbruchil — sup at Crieff. 

M'cdiicsday Mortii)is;- — Leave Crieff — Glen Amond — Amond river — 
Ossian's grave — Loch Fruoch — Glenquaich — landlord and landlady re- 
markable characters — Taymouth described in rhyme — meet the Hon. 
Charles Townshend. 

Thiirsday. — Come down Tay to Dunkeld — Glenlyon f louse — Lyon 
river — Druids' temple — three circles of stones, the outermost sunk : 
the second has thirteen stones remaining, the innermost has eight ; two 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 577 



large detached ones, like a gate, to the south-east — say prayers in it — pass 
Taybridge — Aberfeldy — described in rhyme — Castle Menzies — Inver — 
Dr. Stewart — sup. 

Friday. — Walk with Mrs. Stewart and Beard to Birnam top — fine 
prospect down Tay — Craigieburn hills — hermitage on the Branwater, 
with a picture of O.ssian — breakfast with Dr. Stewart — Neil Gow plays — 
a short, stout-built, honest Highland figure, with his grayish hair shed on 
his honest social brow; an interesting face, marking strong sense, kind 
openheartedness, mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — 
Marget Gow. 

Ride up Tummel river to Blair — Fascally a beautifial romantic nest — 
wild grandeur of the pass of Gilliecrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's 
stone. 

Blair — Sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of the 
family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker. 

Saturday. — Visit the scenes round Blair — fine, but spoiled with bad 
taste — Tilt and Gairie rivers — Falls on the Tilt — heather seat — ride in 
company with Sir William Murray and Mr. Walker, to Loch Tummel — 
meanderings of the Rannach, which runs through quondam Struan 
Robertson's estate, from Loch Rannach to Loch Tummel. Dine at Blair: 
company — General Murray ; Captain Murray, an honest tar ; Sir William 
Murray, an honest, worthy man, but tormented with the hypochondria; 
Mrs. Graham, belle et aimable ; Miss Catchcart ; Mrs. Murray, a painter; 
Mrs. King ; Duchess and fine family, the Marquis, Lords James, Edward, 
and Robert. Ladies Charlotte, Emilia, and children dance. Sup — Mr. 
Graham of Fintry. 

Come up the Garrie — Falls of Bruar — Daldecairoch — Dalwhinnie — dine 

— snow on the liills seventeen feet deep — no corn from Loch Gairie to 
Dalwhinnie — cross the Spey, and come down the stream to Pitnin 

— Straths rich — Ics environs picturesque — Craigow hill — Ruthven of 
Badenoch — barracks — wild and magnificent — Rothemurche on the other 
side, and Glenmore —Grant of Rothemurclie's poetry, told me by the 
Duke of Gordon — Strathspey, rich and romantic. Breakfast at Aviemore, 
a wild spot — dine at Sir James Grant's — Lady Grant a sweet, pleasant 
body — come through mist and darkness to Dulsie to lie. 

Tuesday. — Findhorn I'iver — rocky banks — come on to Castle Cawdor, 
where Macbeth murdered King Duncan — saw the bed in which King 
Duncan was stabbed — dine at Kilravock — Mrs. Rose, sen., a tioie 
chieftain's wife — Fort George — Inverness. 

Wednesday. — Loch Ness — Braes of Ness — General's hut — Falls of 
Fyers — Urquhart Castle and Strath. 

Thursday. — Come over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of battle 

— breakfast at Kilravock — old Mrs. Rose, sterling sense, warm heart, 



578 THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 



strong passions, and honest pride, all in an uncommon degree — Mrs. Rose, 
Jan., a little milder than the mother; this perhaps owing to her being 
younger — Mr. Grant, minister at Calder, resembles Mr. Scott at Inver- 
Icithing — Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to Kildrummie — two 
young ladies : Miss Rose, who sung two Gaelic songs, beautiful and lovely ; 
Miss Sophia Brodie, most agreeable and amiable ; both of them gentle, 
mild, the sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! — 
Dine at Nairn — fall in with a pleasant enough gentleman, Dr. Stewart, 
wlio had been long abroad with his lather in the Forty-five ; and Mr. 
Falconer, a spare, irascible, warm-hearted Norland, and a Nonjuror — 
Brodie-house to lie. 

Friday. — Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Brodie tells me that 
the niuir where Shakespeare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting is still haunted — 
that the country folks won't pass it i)y night. . . . 

Venerable ruins of Elgin Abbey — a grander effect at first glance than 
Melrose, but not near so beautiful — cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, 
worthy of the generous proprietor. Dine — company, Duke and Duchess, 
Ladies Charlotte and Magdeline, Col. Abercrombie and Lady, Mr. Gordon 

and Mr. , a clergyman, a venerable, aged figure : the Duke makes me 

happier than ever great man did — noble, princely, yet mild, condescending, 
and affable, gay and kind — the Duchess witty and sensible — God bless 
them ! 

Come to Cullen to lie — hitherto the country is sadly poor and unim- 
proven. 

Come to Aberdeen — meet with Mr. Chalmers, printer, a facetious fellow 
— Mr. Ross, a fine fellow, like Professor Tytler — Mr. Marshal, one of the 
pflc'ice iiiinores — Mr. Sheriffs, author of " Jamie and Bess," a little decrepid 
body with some abilities — Bishop Skinner, a Nonjuror, son of the author 
of " Tullochgorum,'" a man whose mild venerable manner is the most 
marked of any in so young a man — Professor Gordon, a good-natured, 
jolly-looking professor — Aberdeen, a lazy town — near Stonhive, the coast 
a good deal romantic — meet my relations — Robert Burns, writer, in Ston- 
hive, one of those who love fun, a gill, and a punning joke, and have not 
a bad heart — his wife a sweet hospitable body, without any affectation of 
what is called town-breeding. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast with Mr. Burns — lie at Lawrence Kirk — album 

library — Mrs. a jolly, frank, sensible, love-inspiring widow — Howe 

of the Mearns, a rich, cultivated, but still uninclosed country. 

Wednesday . — Cross North Esk river, and a rich country to Craigow. 

Go to Montrose, that finely-situated, handsome town — breakfast at 
Muthie, and sail along that wild rocky coast, and see the famous caverns, 
particularly the Gairiepot — land and dine at Arbroath — stately ruins of 
Arbroath Abbey — come to Dundee, through a fertile country — Dundee a 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 579 



low-lying but pleasant town — old steeple — Tayfrith — Broughty Castle, a 
finely situated ruin, jutting into the Tay. 

Friday. — Breakfast with the Miss Scotts — Miss Bess Scott like Mrs. 
Greenfield ; my hardship almost in love with her — come through the rich 
harvests and fine hedge-rows of the carse of Gowrie, along the romantic 
margin of the Grampian hills, to Perth — fine, fruitful, hilly, woody country 
round Perth. 

Saturday Morning. — Leave Perth — come up Strathearn to Endermay 

— fine, fruitful, cukivated strath — the scene of "Bessie Bell and Mary 
Gray," near Perth — fine scenery on the banks of the May — Mrs. Belcher, 
gawcie, frank, affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, &c. — lie at Kinross — 
reflections in a fit of the colic. 

Sunday. — Pass through a cold, barren country to Queensferry ^- dine 

— cross the ferry, and on to Edinburgh. 



NOTES. 



NOTES. 



Page I. The tale of the " Twa Dogs," Gil- 
bert Burns writes, was composed after the reso- 
lution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert 
had a dog whicli he called Luath, that was a 
great favourite. The dog had been killed by the 
wanton cruelty of some person the night before 
my father's death. Robert said to me, that he 
should like to confer such immortality as he 
could bestow on his old friend Luath, and that 
he had a great mind to introduce something 
into the book, under the title of .Stanzas to the 
Memory of a Quadruped Friend; but this plan 
was given up for the poem as it now stands. 
Csesar was merely the creature of the poet's 
im.agination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favourite Luath. 

Page I, /. 26. Luath, Cuchullin's dog in 
Ossian's Fingal. R. B. 

Page 2, /. 8. Var. In all editions up to 
1794 — 

Till tired at last wi many a farce, 
They sat ttiem down ui>on their a — . 

Page 3, I. 14. Burns alludes to the factor in 
the autobiographical sketch communicated to 
Dr. John Moore. 

" My father's generous master died : the farm 
proved a ruinous bargain: and, to clench the 
misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor 
who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in 
my tale of the ' Twa Dogs "... my indigna- 
tion yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel 
factor's insolent threatening letters, which used 
to set us all in tears." 

Page 8, /. 10. In the first edition the stanza 
closed as follows : — 

Wae worth them for't! 
While heal'.hs pa'- roiiinl to him, wha tight, 
Gies tanious .sport. 

Page 9, /. 2. Var. " Humble thanks" in 
edition of 1794. 

Page 9, /. 25. This was wrote before the Act 
ancnt the Scotch Distilleries, of .Session, 1786: 
for which Scotland and the author return their 
most grateful thanks. R. B. 

Page 9, /. 35. Var. " Simple Poet's 
Prayers" in edition of 1794. 

Page II, /. I. The allusion in the text is pri- 
marily to Hugh Montgomerie of Coilsfield, 
twelfth Earl of Eglintoune. 

Page II, /. 2. James Boswell of Auchinleck, 
Johnson's biographer. 

Page II, /. 17. George Dempster. Esq., of 
Dunnichen. 

Page II, /. 18. Sir Adam Fergusson of Kil- 
kerran, Bart. 



Page IT, /. 20. The Marquis of Graham, 
eldest son of the Duke of Montro.se. 

Page II, /. 22. The Right Hon. Henry Dun- 
das, Treasurer of the Navy, and M. P. for the 
city of Edinburgh. 

Page II, /. 24. Lord Frederick Campbell, 
second brother of the Duke of Argyle, and Hay 
Campbell, Lord Advocate of Scotland. 

Page 12, /. 13. The Earl of Chatham, Pitt's 
father, was the second son of Robert Pitt of 
Boconnock, in the county of Cornwall. 

Page 12, /. 15. A worthy old hostess of the 
author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes 
studies politics over a glass of guid old Scotch 
drink. R. B. Nanse was surprised at her house 
and name being thus dragged before the public. 
She declared that Burns had never taken three 
half-mutchkins in her house in all his life. 

Page I-},, I. T,-]. In edition of 1794 this stanza 
is altered as follows : — 

" Scotlatiil, my auld respectc'l mitherl 
Tho' whiles ye luoistify your leather, 
Till when ye .speak, yo a'ihiins blether; 

Yet deil mak matter ! 

Freedom and Whiskey Kant; thegither, 

Tak aft your whitlier." 

This tasteless alteration (which we feel con- 
vinced was not made by the poet) was not 
ad ,pted in any subsequent edition of the Poems. 

Page 14, /. I. Holy Fair is a common 
phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental 
occasion. R. B. 

Page 15, /. 39. Var. 

Bet R — r there, an' twa-three whores. 

Racer Jess was a half-witted daughter of 
Poosie Nansie. She was a great pedestrian, 
and died at Mauchline in 1813. 

Page 15, /. 43. Var. An' there, a batch o' 
wabster brawds. 

Page 16, /. 2. Var. An' ithers on their claes. 

Page 16, /. 22. Var. 

Wi' tidincs 0' salvation. 

The change in the text was made at the sug- 
gestion of Dr. Blair. 

Page 16, /. 25. Var. The vera sight o' 
Sawnie's face. 

Page 16, /. 26. I'ar. Tae hell wi' speed 
had sent him. 

Page 16, /. 41. Var. 

Geordie begins his cauld harangues. 

The Rev. George Smith, minister at Galston. 

Page 16, /. 42. Var. On practice and of 
morals. 



584 



NOTES. 



Page 17, /. 12. Var. 

r.jr Siiir.v '•, illie v.i>tLT-Dt. 

The Rev. William Peebles, minister of New- 
ton-upon-Ayr. 

Page 17, /. 17. A street so called, which 
faces the tent in Maiichline. R. B. 

Page 17, /. 19. The Rev. W. Miller, assist- 
ant preacher at Auchinleck, and afterwards 
minister of Kilmaurs, near Kilmarnock. He 
was of short stature. 

Page 18, /. 13. ]^ar. 

KliuU .loL-k i^^ na spairin. 

The Rev. John Russel, minister of the Chapel 
of Ease, Kilmarnock. 

Page \Z, 1.1-]. Shakespeare's Hamlet. R. C. 

Page 18, /. 32. Var. How yill gaed roimd 
in jugs an' caups. 

Page 1^ , 1 . 2,7 ■ J'ar. Then comes a gaucie, 
gash guidwife. 

Page 19. The composition of "Death and 
Doctor Hornbook " was suggested by the cir- 
cumstances related in the Preface. It was 
composed rapidly. Burns met the apothecary 
at a meeting of the Tarbolton Masonic lodge, 
and the ne.xt afternoon he repeated the entire 
poem to Gilbert. With reference to its compo- 
sition, Mr. Allan Cunningham supplies the fol- 
lowing tradition, which is nonsense on the face 
of it. 

"On his way home" — from the Masonic meet- 
ing — "the Poet found a neighbor lying tipsy 
by the road-side; the idea of Death flashed on 
his fancy, and seating liimself on the parapet of 
a bridge, he composed the poem, fell asleep, and 
when awakened by the morning sun, he recol- 
lected it all, and wrote it down on reaching 
Mossgiel." 

The laughter occasioned by the publication 
of the satire drove, it is said, John Wilson, 
schoolmaster and apothecary, out of the county. 
He ultimately .settled in Glasgow, became Ses- 
sion Clerk of the Gorbals, and died in 1839. 
" Death and Doctor Hornbook" first appeared 
in the Edinburgh edition of the poems. 

Page 19, /. 29. In all the editions up to 1794 
this line stood: 

r.rcnt liL"^ anil nonsense baith to vend. 

Page jg, /. 37. Mr. Robert Wright, in his 
Life of Major-General James Wolfe, states that 
" Hell " was the name given to the arched pas- 
sage in Dublin which led into the area on the 
south side of Christ Church, and east of the law 
courts. A representation of the Devil, carved 
in oak, stood above the entrance. 

Page 20, /. 32. This rencounter happened in 
seed-time, 1785. R. B. 

Page 21, /. 9. An epidemical fever was then 
raging in that country. R. B. 

Page 21, /. 21. This gentleman, Dr. Horn- 
book, is, professionally, a brother of the Sove- 
reign Order of the Ferula, but by intuition and 
inspiration is at once an apothecary, surgeon, 
and physician. R. B. 



Page 21, /. 25. Buchan's Domestic Medi- 
cine. R. 15. 

Page 22, /. 31. The grave-digger. R. B. 

Page 24. The occasion of this poem was 
the erection of a new bridge across the river 
at Ayr, to supersede the inconvenient structure 
built in the reign of Alexander III. i\Ir. Bal- 
lantine. Burns' patron, and chief magistrate of 
the town, was mainly instrumental in raising 
funds for the work; and to him the poem is 
dedicated. 

Page 25, /. 15. A noted tavern at the Auld 
Brig end. R. B. 

Page 25, /. 20. Var. 

TUo drowsy steeple clocU had numbered two. 

The two steeples. R. B. The " Dungeon 
Clock" in this, and the " Wallace Tow'r" in 
the following line. 

Page 25, /. 28. Var. 
^\'lu-r', lo I before our Bardie's wond'ring e'en 
TUe i;rigs of Ayr's twa sprites are seen. 

Page 25, /. 31. The Gos-hawk or Falcon. 
R. B. 

Page 26, /. II & 12. This couplet — the most 
picturesque and memorable in the poem — does 
not occur in the MS. copy. 

Page 26, I. 15. A noted ford, just above the 
Auld Brig. R. B. 

Page 26, /. 30. Var. 

Ur haunted Gurpal draws its feehlc source. 

The banks of Garpal water is one of the few 
places in the west of Scotland where those fancy- 
.^caring beings known by the name of Ghaists 
still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. R. B. 

Page 16, 1. 2,^. Var. Aroused by blust'ring 
winds an' spotted thowes. 

Page 26, /. 35. " Glenbuck," the source of 
the river Ayr. R. B. 

Page 26, /. 36. " Ratton-Key," a small land- 
ing-place above the large key. R. B. 

Page 28, /. 3. Var. To liken them to your 
auld warld bodies. 

Page 28, /. 4. Var. I must needs say com- 
parisons are odious. 

Page 28, /. 14. Vnr. Plain, kind stupidity 
slept kindly in to aid them. 

Page 28, /. 25. h well-known performer of 
Scottish music on the violin. R. B. 

Page 28, A 49. A stream near Coilsfield. 

Page 28, /. 51. Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 

Page 29, /. 2. The seat of Professor Dugald 
Stewart. 

Page 29. " The Ordination " was composed 
on the Rev. Mr. Mackinlay being called to Kil- 
marnock. It was first printed in the second 
edition of the Poems. 

Page 29, /. 17. Alluding to a scoffing ballad 
which was made on the admission of the Htc 
reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh 
Kirk. R. B. 



Page 29, /. 3, 2 col. Var. 

Formula and confession : 
An' lay your hands upon his head, 
An" seal his high coniuiission. 
The holy flock to tent an' feed. 

Page 30, /. 15,2 col. V^ar. 

Will clap him in the torture. 

Page 30, /. 21, 2 col. " New Light " is a cant 
phrase in the west of Scotland for those reli- 
gious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich 
has so strenuously defended. R. B. 

Page 30, /. 28. With reference to this piece 
Burns wrote to a correspondent: — " Warm re- 
collection of an absent friend presses so hard 
upon my heart, that I send him the prefixed bag- 
atelle, pleased with the thought that it will greet 
the man of my bosom, and bs a kind of distant 
language of friendship. ... It was merely an 
extemporaneous production, on a wager with 
Mr. Hamilton that I would not produce a poem 
on the subject in a given time." The Rev. Mr. 
Steven was afterwards minister of one of the 
Scotch churches in London — where, in 1790, 
William Burns, the Poet's brother, heard him 
preach — and he finally settled at Kilwinning in 
Ayrshire, where he died in 1824. 

Page 31. Gilbert Burns says: " It was, I 
think, in the winter of 1784, as we were going 
together with carts for coal to the family fire 
(and I could yet point out the particular spot), 
that the author first repeated to me the " Address 
to the Deil." The curious idea of such an 
address was suggested to him by turning over 
in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and 
representations we have from various quarters 
of this august personage." 

Page 32, /. 13. This stanza was originally as 
follows : — 

Lang syne in Eden's happy .scene, 
When strappin' Adam's (lays were green. 
And Eve was like my bonie Jean, 
My dearest part, 
^ A dancin', sweet, young, handsome quean, 
Wi' guileless heart. 

Page 32, /. II, 2 col. Vide Milton, Book vi. 
R. B. 

Page 32, /. 29. This was one of Burns' ear- 
liest poems, the first indication of that peculiar 
mor.il humour of which the " Twa Dogs" is the 
finest example. It was written before 1784, and 
Gilbert Burns informed Dr. Currie that " the 
circumstances of the poor sheep were pretty 
much as he has described them : he had, partly 
by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs 
from a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field 
adjoining the house at Lochlea. He and I were 
going out with our teams, and our two younger 
brothers to drive for us, at mid-day, when Hugh 
Wilson, a curious-looking, awkward lad, clad in 
plaiding, came to us with much anxiety in his 
face, with the information that the ewe had 
entangled herself in the tether, and was lying 
in the ditch. Robert was much tickled with 
Hughoc's appearance and postures on the occa- 
sion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and when 



we returned from the plough in the evening he 
repeated to me her ' Death and Dying Words' 
pretty much in the way they now stand." 

Page 32, /. 34. A neibor herd callan. R. B. 
" In a copy of this poem in the Poet's handwrit- 
ing, possessed by Miss Grace Aiken, Ayr, a 
more descriptive note is here given. ' Hughoc 
was an odd, glowran, gapin' callan, about three- 
fourths as wise as other folk.' " Chambers, 

Page 33, /. 26, 2 col. This stanza was origin- 
ally written : — 

i^he was nae get o' rimtcd rams, 

Wi' woo' like goats, and legs like trams; 

She was the flower o' Euirlie lambs, 

A fatuous breed : 
Now Robin, greetin', chows the hams 
O' Mailie dead. 

Page 34. Mr. James Smith was, when this 
epistle was written, a shopkeeper in Mauch- 
line. He afterwards removed to Avon near 
Linlithgow, where he established a calico-print- 
ing manufactory. Being unsuccessful in his 
speculations, he emigrated to the West Indies, 
where he died. 

Page 35, /. 19, 2 col. George Dempster, Esq. 
of Dunnichen. 

Page 36. Certain of Burns' friends — Mrs. 
Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart of Stair — con- 
sidered the " Dream " to contain perilous stuff. 
These ladies, it is said, vainly solicited the Poet 
to omit it in the second edition of his poems. 
The " Dream," if not a high, is a very charac- 
teristic effort : there never was an easier hand- 
gallop of verse. 

Page 36, /. 14, 2 col. An allusion to the loss 
of the North American colonies. 

Page 37, /. 7. " On the supplies for the Navy 
being voted. Spring 1786, Captain Macbride 
counselled some changes in that force, parti- 
cularly the giving up of sixty-four gun-ships, 
which occasioned a good deal of discussion." 
Chambers. 

Page 37, /. 35. Charles James Fox. 

Page 77, /. 6, 2 col. Frederick, Bishop of 
Osnaburg, afterwards Duke of York. 

Page 37, /. 15, 2 col. William, afterwards 
Duke of Clarence, and King William IV. 

Page 37, /. 17, 2 col. Alluding to the news- 
paper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. 
R.B. 

Page 38. Duan, a term of Ossian's for the 
different divisions of a digressive poem. .See 
his " Cath-Loda," vol. ii. of McPherson's trans- 
lation. R. B. 

Page 38, /. 27, 2 col. This line supplies a cu- 
rious instance of the fluctuations of Burns' mind 
and passion. It was originally written as it 
stands in the text, but in the bitter feeling in- 
duced by the destruction of the marriage lines 
he had given to Jean Armour he transferred 



586 



NO TES. 



the compliment to the reigning favourite of the 
hour. In the first edition the line stood — 

And sucli a leg ! my Boss, I wccn. 
In the Edinburgh edition, the old afTecnon being 
in the ascendant again, the line was restored to 
its original shape. 

Page 39, /. 19. This and the six following 
stanzas appeared for the first time in the second 
edition. 

Page 39, /. 26. The Wallaces. R. B. 

fage 39, /. I, 2 col. William Wallace. R. B. 

Page 39, /. 2, 2 col. Adam Wallace of 
Richardton, cousin of the immortal preserver 
of Scottish independence. R. B. 

Page 39, /. 3, 2 col. Wallace, Laird of 
Craigie, who was second in command, under 
Douglas, Earl of Ormund, at the famous battle 
on the banks of the Sark, fought anno 1448. 
That glorious victory was principally owing to 
the judicious conduct and intrepid valor of the 
gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds 
after the action. R. B. 

Page 39, /. 7, 2 col. Coilus, King of the 
Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to 
take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near 
the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coils- 
field, where his burial-place is still shown. R. B. 

Page 39, /. 13, 2 col. Barskimming, the seat 
of the Lord Justice Clerk. R. B. (Sir Thomas 
Miller of Gleulee, afterwards President of the 
Court of Session). 

Page 39, /. 19, 2 col. Catrine, the seat of the 
late Doctor, and present Professor, Stewart. 
R. B. 

Page 39, /. 25, 2 col. Colonel Fullarton. R. B. 

Page 41, /. 18, 2 col. In the Appendix to the 
second volume of Mr. Robert Chambers' " Life 
and Works of Burns " are printed the following 
additional stanzas of the " Vision," taken from a 
MS. in the possession of Mr. Dick, bookseller, 
Ayr. After the i8th stanza of printed copies : — 
With sei'rit throes I nmrk'd thnt earth, 
That cottage, witness of my birth; 
And near I saw, bold issuing forth, 

In yotitlifiit pride, 
A Lindsay, race of noble worth, 
Fanieil far and wide. 

Where, hid behind n spreading wood, 
An aneient Piet-built mansion stood, 
I spied, among an angel brood, 

A female pair; 
Sweet shone their high maternal blood 

And father's air. 

An aneient tower to memory brought 
How Detlingen's bold hero fought; 
Still, far from sinking into nouglit, 

It owns a l()r(i 
Who " far in western " climates fought 

With trusty sword. 

There, where a sceptred Pietish shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I saw a martini race portrny'd 

In colors strong: 
Bold, sodger-featiired, undismay'd, 

Tlicy stalked along. 



Amon" the rest I well could spy 
One gallant, graceful, martial boy; 
The sodger sparkled in his eye, 

A diamond water; 
I blest tliat noble ba<lgc with joy 

That owned me frater."- 

After the 20th stanza : — 
Near by aros" a mansion fine, 
The seiit of many a Jluse divine; 
Not rustic .Musi's such as mine, 

AVitli holly crowned. 
But th' aneient, tuneful, laurelled nine 

From classic ground. 

I mourned tlie card that fortune dealt. 
To see where boiiic Whitefoords dwelt; 
But other prospects made me melt, — 

That village . ear. 
There nature, friendship, love, I felt. 

Fond — mingling dear. 

Hail nature's pang, more strong than dcalhl 
Warm friendship's glow, like kindling wrath! 
Love, dearer than tlie parting breath 

Of dying friend! 
Not even with life's wild devious path 

Your force shall end. 
The power that g.ive the sof: alarms 
In blooming \Vliit< fiords' rosv charms, 
Still threats the tinv-feathered arms. 

The barbed dart, 
While lovelv Wilhelmina charms 

The coldest heart. 

After the 21st: — 

Where Lu^ar leaves his moorland plnid, 
Where lately Want was idly laid, 
I marked busy, bustling Trade 

In fervid flame. 
Beneath a patroness's air 

Of noble name. 

While countless hills I could survey, 
An»l countless flocks as well as they ; 
But other scenes did charms tiisplay 

That better please. 
Where polisheil manners dwelt with Gray 

In rural case. 
Where Cessnock flows with gurgling sound, 
And Irwine inarkiiig out the bound. 
Enamoured of the scenes around, 

Slow runs his race, 
A name I d.mblv honoured found 

With knightly grace. 

Brydone's brave ward I saw liim stand. 
Fame humbly ottering her hand. 
And near his kinsman's rustic band 

With one accord 
Lamenting their late blessed lan41 

Must change its lord. 
The owner of a pleasant sptit. 
Near sandy wilds I did him note: 
A heart too warm, a pulse too hot. 

At times o'crran. 
But, large in every feature WTOte, 

Appeared the man. 

Page 41, /. 19. This poem was first printed 
in the second edition of Burns' works. 

Page 42, /. 17. WTien this worthy old sports- 
man went out last muir-fowl season, he supposed 
it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, " the last of his 
fields," and expressed an ardent desire to die and 
be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author 
composed his Elegy and Epitaph. R. B. 

'Captain .Tames Montgomery, Master of St. James's 
Lodge, Tarbolton, to which the author has the honour 
to belong. R. B. 



NOTES. 



587 



Page 42, /. 33. .A^ certain preacher, a great 
favourite with the million. Vide the " Ordina- 
tion," stanza ii. R. B. 

Page 42, /. 34. Another preacher, an equal 
favourite with the few, who was at that time 
ailing. For him see also the " Ordination," 
stanza ix. R. B. 

Page 43, /. 25. This stanza does not appear 
in the Edniburgh edition. 

Page 43, /. 22, col. 2. Killle is a phrase the 
country folk sometimes use for the name of a 
certain town in the west CKilmarnock). R. B. 

Page 48. The scene of fhe " Jolly Beggars " 
was the Change house of Poosie Nansie's in 
Mauchline, a favourite haunt of all kinds of 
vagrants. It is said that Burns witnessed the 
circumstances which gave rise to the poem in 
company with his friend James Smith. Although 
the most dramatic of all Burns' performances, it 
was not a favourite with his mother and brother, 
and he never seems to have thought it worthy 
of publication. Mr. George Thomson had heard 
of its e.xistence, and in 1793 wrote the Poet on 
the subject. Burns replied, " I have forgot the 
cantata you allude to, as I kept no copy, and, 
indeed, did not know of its existence; however, 
I remember that none of the songs pleased my- 
self except the last, something about 
" Courts for cowards were crt'ctcd, 
Cliurches built to please the priest." 

It was first published in Glasgow in 1801. 

Page 48, /. 34. The heights of Abraham, 
where Wolfe gloriously fell. 

Page 48, /. 36. " El Morro, the cattle which 
defends the entrance to the harbour of Santiago, 
or St. Jago, a small island near the southern 
shore of Cuba. It is situated on an eminence, 
the abutments being cut out of the limestone 
rock. Logan's Notes of a To7tr, &fc., Edin- 
burgh, 1838. In 1762 this castle was stormed 
and taken by the British, after which the Havana 
was surrendered, with spoil to the value of three 
millions." Chambers. 

Page 48, /. 41. Captain Curtis, who destroyed 
the Spanish floating batteries during the siege 
of Gibraltar. 

Page 48, /. 43. The defender of Gibraltar, 
George Augustus Elliot, created Lord Heath- 
field for his services. 

Page 54. Gilbert Burns states that the " Verses 
to the Mouse" were composed while the author 
was holding the plough. Mr. Chambers relates 
a pleasant circumstance in relation to the event, 
and the poem to which it gave rise. "John 
Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, 
and who lived sixty years afterwards, had a dis- 
tinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse. 
Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after 
the creature to kill it, but was checked and re- 
called by his master, who he observed became 
thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, 
who treated his servants with the familiarity of 



fellow-labourers, soon after read the poem to 
Blane." The gaudsman's rush after the terri- 
fied creature may have suggested the lines: — 
" I wad be laitli to rin an' chase tlice, 
Wi' murd'riiig pattle." 

Page 55. "A Winter Night " was first printed 
in the second edition of the poems. 

Page 57. Davie was David Sillar, a member 
of the Tarbolton Club, and author of a volume 
of poems printed at Kilmarnock in 17S9. Gil- 
bert Bums states that the " Kpistle " was among 
the earliest of his brother's poems. " It was," 
he adds, " I think, in summer, 1784, when, in the 
interval of harder labour, he and 1 were weednig 
in the garden (kailyard) that he repeated to me 
the prmcipal part of the epistle. I believe the 
first idea of Robert's becoming an author was 
started on this occasion. I was much pleased 
with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion 
it would bear being printed, and that it would 
be well received by people of taste; that I 
thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many 
of Allan Ramsay's epistles; and that the merit 
of these, and much other Scottish poetry, seemed 
to consist in the knack of the expression; but 
here there was a stream of interesting .sentiment, 
and the Scotticism of the language scarcely 
seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural 
language of the poet; that, besides, there was 
certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out 
the consolations that were in store for him when 
he should go a-begging. Robert seemed very 
well pleased with my criticism, and we talked 
of sending it to some magazine; but as the plan 
afforded no opportunity of how it would take, 
the idea was dropped." 

Page 57, /. 37. Ramsay. R. B. 

Page 59. With reference to the poem Gil- 
bert Burns writes, "It is scarcely necessary to 
mention that the " Lament" was composed on 
that unfortunate passage of his matrimonial his- 
tory which I have mentioned in my letter to 
Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distraction of his 
feelings had a little subsided." 

Page 61, /. 9. Dr. Young. R. B. 

Page 61. Gilbert Burns, in writing of the 
" Cotter's Saturday Night," says, " Robert had 
frequently remarked to me, that he thought 
there was something peculiarly venerable in the 
phrase, ' Let us worship God,' used by a decent 
sober head of a family introd. icing family wor- 
ship. To this sentiment of the author the world 
is indebted for the ' Cotter's Saturday Night.' 
The hint of the plan and title of the poem were 
taken from Fergusson's ' Farmer's Ingle.' When 
Robert had not some pleasure in view in which 
I was not thought fit to participate, we used 
frequently to walk together, when the weather 
was favourable, on the Sunday afternoons 
(those precious breathing times to the labour- 
ing part of the community), and enjoyed such 
Sundays as would make one regret to .see their 
number abridged. It was in one of these walks 
that I first had the pleasure of hea ing the 




author repeat the ' Cotter's Saturday Night.' 
I do not recollect to have read or heard anything 
by which 1 was more highly electrilied. The fifth 
and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled 
with a peculiar ecstasy through my soul." 

Page (>2,l.Z. Var. Does a' his weary kiaugh 
and care beguile. First Edinb. edition. 

Paged'-), I.-], Pope's "Windsor Forest." R. B- 

Page 65, /. 23. Var. 

That stream'd thro" great un}iappy Wallace' heart. 
First and second edition. 

Page 65. Gilbert Burns writes, " Several of 
the poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favourite sentiment of 
the author. He used to remark to me that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying pic- 
ture of human life than a man seeking work. In 
casting about in his mind how this sentiment 
might be brought foward, the elegy " Man was 
made to Mourn " was composed. 

Page 65, /. 33. In Burns' memoranda the 
following passage is prefixed to the prayer: ''A 
prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming 
symptoms of pleurisy, or some other dangerous 
disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first 
put nature on the alarm." 

Page6T,l. n. Var. Again by passion would 
be led astray. 

Page 67, /. 20. Var. 
If one so black with crimes dare call on Thee. 

Page 67, /. 24. Var. 

Those rapid headlong passions to confine. 

Page 67, /. 25. Var. 

For all unfit my native powers be. 

Page 67, I. 28. " The first time," says Gilbert 
Burns, " Robert heard the spinnet played upon 
was at the house of Dr. Laurie, then minister 
of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, 
having given up the parish in favour of his son. 
Dr. Laurie has several daughters: one of them 
played; the father and mother led down the 
dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the 
Poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was 
a delightful family scene for our Poet, then 
lately introduced to the world. His mind was 
roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas 
were left in the room where he slept." Mr. 
Chambers states that the morning after the 
dance Burns did not make his appearance at 
the breakfast table at the usual hour. Dr. 
Laurie's son went to inquire for him, and met 
him on the stair. The young man asked Burns 
if he had slept well. " Not well," was the reply: 
" the fact is, I have been praying half the night. 
If you go up to my room, you will find my 
prayer on the table." 

Page 68, /. 21. In Burns' memoranda the 
poem appears with the following sentences 

firefixed: " There was a certain period of my 
ife that my spirit was broke by repeated losses 



and disasters, which threatened, and indeed 
effected, the utter ruin of my fortune. My 
body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful 
disorder, a hypochondria or confirmed melan- 
choly. In this wretched state, the recollection 
of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my 
harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid 
intervals, in one of which I composed the fol- 
lowing." 

Page 70, /. 13. This poem was addressed to 
Andrew Aitken, son of the poet's patron, Robert 
Aitken, to whom the " Cotter's Saturday Night " 
was dedicated. Mr. Chambers states that 
Mr. Niven c*" Kilbride always alleged that the 
" Epistle " was originally addressed to him. 

Page 70, /. 22, col. 2. After this line, in a 
copy of the poem in Burns' handwriting, the 
following stanza occurs : — 

If vc hac made a step aside. 

Sonic hap mistake o'crta'en you, 
Yet still keep up a decent pricfe. 

And ne'er o'er far demean you. 
Time comes wi' kind oblivious shade. 

And daily darker sets it ; 
And if iiae'niair mistakes arc made. 
The world soon torgets it. 

Page 71. Burns when meditating emigra- 
tion to the West Indies was in gloomy mood 
enough, and in this ode, although m it he mocks 
at fortune, there are not wanting touches of 
bitterness, which are all the more effective from 
the prevalent lightness and gaiety by which 
they are surrounded. 

Page 71, I. 29. Var. 

Our billie, Rob, has ta'en a jink. 

Page 71, /. 35. Var. 

He's canter't to anithcr shore. 
Page 71, /. 38. Var. 

An' pray kind Fortune to redress him. 
Page 71, /. 39. Var. 

'Twill gar her poor, auld heart, 1 itta. 

Page 71. / 20, col. 2. Var. 

An' scarce a bcllyfu' o' drummock. 

Page 71, /. 37, col. 2. I'ar. 

Then fare you weel, mj' rhyniin billie! 

Page 71, /. 7. This poem did not appear in 
the first edition. 

Page 72. In the " Caledonian Mercury," of 
date 20th December, 1786, in which the " Hag- 
gis " was printed, apparently for the first time, 
the concluding stanza appears as follows: — 
Yc Pow'rs wha gic us a' that's gude, 
Still bless auld • alcdonia's brood 
Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's bludc, 

111 stowps or laggics; 
An' on our board that king of food, 
A glorious Haggice. 

Page 72. The dedication to Gavin Hamilton, 
the poet's friend and patron, did not, as might 
have been expected, open the volume published 
at Kilmarnock. It, however, finds its place in 
the body of the work. 



NOTES. 



589 



Page 74, /. 30. The " lady " referred to in this 
line was, Mr. Chambers informs us, a village 
belle. He adds that her name was well known 
in Mauchline. 

Page 75. This Address was written in Edin- 
burgh in 1786. 

Page 75, /. 29. " Fair Burnet " was llie daugh- 
ter of Lord Monboddo. Burns' admiration for 
her was intense. 

Page 75. " The Epistle to John Lnpraik was 
produced," says Gilbert Hums, "exactly on the 
occasion described by the author. It was at 
one of these rockings at our house, when we 
had twelve or fifteen young people with their 
rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning, ' When I 
upon thy bosom lean,' was sung, and we were 
informed who was the author. Upon this Robert 
wrote his first epislle to Lapraik; and his second 
was in reply to his answer." 

Page 78. William SimpFon was the school- 
master of Ochiltree parish. 

Page 80. The postscript to the foregoing 
"Epistle" may be considered as a pendant to 
" The twa herds," which was making a noise in 
Ayrshire at the time. 

Page 81. John Rankine lived at Adam-hill, 
in Ayrshire ; he was a man of much humour, 
and was one of Burns' earliest friends. 

Page 81, /. 4. A certain humorous dream of 
his was then making noise in the country-side. 
R. B. Of this dream the substance is thus 

related by Allan Cunningham. "Lord K 

was in the habit of calling his familiar acquaint- 
ances 'brutes' or 'damned brutes.' One day 
meeting Rankine, his lordship said, ' Brute, 
are ye dumb? have ye no queer story to tell us? ' 
' I have nae story,' said Rankine, ' but last 
night I had an odd dream.' ' Out with it, 
by all means,' said the other. 'A weel, 
ye see,' said Rankine, ' I dreamed that I 
was dead, and that for keeping other than good 
company on earth, I was damned. When I 
knocked at hell-door, wha should open it but 
the deil; he was in a rough humour, and said, 
" Wha may you be, and what's your name? " 
"My name," quoth L, "is John Rankine, and my 
dwelling-place was Adam-hill." " Gi wa' wi'," 
quoth Hatan, "ye canna be here; yer ane of 

Lord K 's damned brutes: Hell's fjuo' them 

already \" '" This sharp rebuke, it is said, 
polished for the future his lordship's speech. 
The trick alluded to in the same line was Ran- 
kine's making tipsy one of the " unco gude." 

Page 81, /. 29. A song he had promised the 
author. 

Page 82. Friar's Carse was the estate of 
Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel, beautifully situ- 
ated on the banks of the Nit'', near Ellisland. 
Tiic Hermitage v/as a decorated cottage, which 
the proprietor had erected. 



Page 82, /. 6 In a copy printed in the Gen- 
He man's Magazine the following couplet occurs 
here : — 

Day — how rapid in its flight! 

Day — how few must see the nightl 

Page 82, /. 10. I'ar 

Beneath {\\y mornmg's sun advance. Genfs. Mag, 

Page 82, /. 25. i'ar. 

When tliy shades of ev'ning close. Gent's. Mag. 

Page 82, /. 33. Var. 

genuine estimate 
Say the criterion of their fate 
Tlie important (|uery of tiieir 6ta*e, 
Is not, &c. Gent's. Mag. 

Page 82, /. 36. Var. 

ebb or flow? 
Wert thou cottager or kinj^. 
Peer or peasant?— No sneii thing. 
Tell them, &g. Gent's. Mag. 

Page 82, /. 22, roi. 2. Var. 

Fame, a restless airy dream. Gent's. Mag. 
Page 82, /. 23, col. 2, Var. 

Pleasures, insects on the wing; 

Round peace, the teudcrest flower of spring. 
Gent's. Mag. 
Page 82, /. 26, col. 2. Var. 

Slake the butterflies their own Gent's. Mag. 
Page 82, /. 31, rol. 2. Var. 

But thy utmost duty done. Gent's. Mag. 
Page 82, /. 42, col. 2. Var. 

Quod the Bedesman on Nitheside. Gent's. Mag. 

Page 83. The subject of this ode was the 
widow of Richard Oswald, Esq., of Auchincruive. 
She died December 6, 1788. Burns himself 
states the cause of its composition. " In 
January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I h.ad to 
put up at Bailie Whigham's, m Sanquhar, the 
only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was 
keen, and the grim evening and howling wind 
were ushering in a night of snow and drift. 
My horse and I were both much fatigued by 
the labours of the day; and just as my friend 
the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the 
storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the 
funereal pageantry of the late Mrs. Oswald, and 
poor I am forced to brave all the terrors of the 
tempestuous night, and jade my horse — my 
young favourite horse, whom I had just christ- 
ened Pegasus — farther on through the wildest 
hills and moors of Ayrshire to the next inn. 
The powers of poetry and prose sink under me 
when I would describe what I felt. .Suffice it 
to say, that v/hen .a good fire at New Cumnock 
had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat 
down and wrote the enclosed ode." Being </(■««/, 
the poor lady could hardly be held responsible 
for disturbing the Poet's potations with his 
friend the Bailie! 

Page 83. In Februai ^, 1791, Burns wrote 
respecting this poem: " The Elegy on Cap- 
tain Henderson is a tribute to the memory 
of a man I loved much. ... As almost all my 
religious tenets originate from my heart, I an? 



590 



NOTES. 



wonderfully pleased with the idea that I can 
still keep up a tender intercourse with the 
dearly beloved friend, or still more der^.rly 
beloved mistress, who is gone to the world of 
spirits." 

Page 84. Readers curious in the transmis- 
sion of poetic ideas may amuse themselves 
by comparing this epitaph with Wordsworth's 
I'oei's EpUapk. 

Page 85. Writing to Mrs. Graham, of Fintry, 
Burns says, " Whether it is that the story 
of our Mary, Queen of Scots, has a peculiar 
effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether 
I have in the enclosed ballad succeeded beyond 
my usual poetic success, I know not; but it has 
pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a 
good while past: on that account I enclose it 
particularly to you." 

Page 86. Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, 
was one of the Commissioners of Excise. 
Burns met him at the house of the Duke 
of Athole. The "Epistle" was the poet's 
earliest attempt in the manner of Pope. It has 
its merits, of course; but it lacks the fire, ease, 
and sweetness of his earlier Epistles to Lapraik, 
Smith, and others. 

Page 88, /. 10. " By a fall, not froin my horse, 
but with my horse, I have been a cripple some 
time." Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, 7th February, 
1791. 

Page 88, /. 11. ^^ar. 

The npopled fold thv kindly care have found ; 
The luiriioil bull treineniious spurns the ground; 
The lowly lion has enough and more, — 
The forest trembles at his very roar. 

Page%%,l. 14. Var. 

The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 

Page 88 J. 21. Far. 

Even silly women have defensive arts — 

Their eyes, their tongues, and nameless other parts. 

Page 88, /. 29. Var. 

No claws to dig, his dreaded sight to shun. 

Page 88, /. 31. P'ar. 

No nerves olfactory, true to Jlaninion's fool ; 
Or grunting grub, sagacious, evil's root; 
Or grunting sage, to grub all-evil's root. 

Page 88, /. 39. Alexander Munro, Professor 
of Anatomy in the University of Edinburgh. 
Page 85, I. ^6. I'ar. 

The hapless Poet flounces on through life. 

Page 89, /. 31. James, Earl of Glencairn. 
See succeeding poem. 

Page 89. This nobleman, for whom the Poet 
had a deep respect, died at Falmouth, in 
his forty-second year. Burns wore mourning 
for the Earl, and designed to attend his funeral 
in Ayrshire. He enclosed the poem to Lady 
Elizabeth Cunningham, sister of the deceased 
nobleman. 



Page 91. " When my father," writes Gil- 
bert Burns, ''^feued his little property near 
Alloway Kirk, the wall of the churchyard had 
gone tj ruin, and cattle had tree liberty of 
pasture in it. My father, with two or three 
other neighbors, joined in an application to 
the town council of Ayr, who were superiors of 
the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and 
raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this 
ancient cemetery with a wall; hence he c.'me 
to consider it as his burial-place, and we learned 
that reverence for it people generally have lor 
the burial-place of their ancestors. My brother 
was living at EUisland, when Captain Grose, 
on his peregrinations through Scotland, stayed 
some time at Carse House, in the neighbour- 
hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen- 
riddel, a particular friend of my brother's. 
The Antiquarian and the Poet were ' unco pack 
and thick thegither.' Robert requested of Cap- 
tain Grose, when he should come to Ayrshire, 
that he would make a drawing of Alloway Kirk, 
as it was the burial-place of his father, and 
where he himself had a sort of claim to lay 
down his bones when they should be no longer 
serviceable to him; and added, by way of en- 
couragement, that it was the scene of many a 
good story of witches and apparitions, of which 
he knew the Captain was very fond. The Cap- 
tain agreed to the request, provided the Poet 
would furnish a witch story, to be printed 
along with it. ' Tarn o' Shanter ' was pro- 
duced on this occasion, and was first published 
in ' Grose's Antiquities of Scotland.' " The fol- 
lowing letter, sent by Burns to Captain Grose, 
deals with the witch stories that clustered round 
Alloway Kirk. 

" Among the many witch stories I have heard 
relating to Alloway Kirk, I distinctly remember 
only two or three. 

" Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
of wind and bitter blasts of hall — in short, on 
such a night as the devil would choose to take 
the sir in — a farmer, or a farmer's servant, was 
plodding and plashing homeward with his 
plough-irons on his shoulder, having been get- 
ting some repairs on them at a neighbouring 
smithy. His way lay by the Kirk of Alloway, 
and being rather on the anxious look-out in 
approaching the place so well known to be a 
favourite haunt of the devil, and the devil's 
friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by 
discovering, through the horrors of the storm 
and stormy night, a light, which, on his nearer 
approach, plainly showed itself to proceed from 
the haunted edifice. Whether he had been for- 
tified from above on his devout supplication, 
as is customary with people when they suspect 
the immediate presence of Satan, or whether, 
according to another custom, he had got 
courageously drunk at the smithy, I will not 
pretend to determine; but so it was, that he 
ventured to go up to — nay, into— the very 
Kirk. -\s luck would have it, his temerity came 
off I'npunished. 

"The members of the infernal junto were aK 
out. on some midnight business or other, and he 



saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, 
depending from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
some heads of imchristened children, limbs of 
executed malefactors, &c., for the business of the 
night. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, 
with the honest ploughman; so, without cere- 
mony, he unhooked the caldron from olT the 
fire, and pouring out its damnable ingredients, 
inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly 
home, where it remained long in the family, a 
living evidence of the truth of the story. 

" Another story which I can prove to be 
equally authentic, w.a.s as follows: — 

"On a market-day, in the town of Ayr, a farmer 
from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay 
by the very gate of AUoway Kirk-yard, in order 
to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which 
is about two or three hundred yards farther on 
than the said gate, had been detained by his busi- 
ness, till by the time he reached Alloway it was 
the wizard hour, between night and morning. 

" Though he was terrified with a blaze stream- 
ing from the Kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact, 
that to turn back on these occasions is running 
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently 
advanced on his road. When he had reached 
the gate of the Kirk-yard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches of an 
old Gothic window, which still faces the high- 
way, to see a dance of witches merrily fooling 
it round their old sooty blackguard master, who 
was keeping them all alive with the power of his 
bagpipe. The farmer, stopping his horse to ob- 
serve them a little, could plainly descry the faces 
of many of his acquaintance and neighborhood. 
How the gentleman was dressed, tradition does 
not say, but that the ladies were all in their 
smocks; and one of them happening unluckily 
to have a smock which was considerably too 
short to answer all the purposes of that piece of 
dress, our farmer was so tickled that he involun- 
tarily burst out, with a loud laugh, 'Weel looppen 
Maggy wi' the short sarkl'and recollecting 
himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top of 
his speed. I need not mention the universally 
know^ fact, that no diabolical power can pursue 
yov beyond the middle of a running stream. 
Lucky It was for the poor farmer that the river 
Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed 
of his horse, which was a good one, against he 
reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, 
and consequently the middle of the stream, the 
pursuing, vengeful hags were so close at his heels, 
that one of them actually sprang to seize him: 
but it was too late; nothing was on her side of 
the stream but the horse's tail, which immedi- 
ately gave way at her infernal grip, as if blasted 
by a .'.troke of lightning; but the farmer was be- 
yond her reach. However, the unsightly, tail- 
less condition of the vigorous steed was, to the 
last hours cf the noble creature's life, an awful 
warning to the Carrick farmers not to stay too 
late in Ayr markets." 

This letter is interesting, as showing the actual 
body of tradition on which Burns had to work — 
the soil out of which the consummate poem grew 
like a flower. And it is worthy of notice also 



how, out of the letter, some of the best things in 
the poem have come: " such a night as the 
devil would choose to take the air m " being, 
for instance, the suggestion of the couplet — 



It is pleasant to know that Burns thought well 
of" Tam o' Shanter." 

To Mrs. Dunlop he wrote on the nth April, 
1791 : — " On Saturday morning last Mrs. Burns 
made me a present of a fine boy, rather stouter, 
but not so handsome as your godson was at his 
time of life. Indeed, I look on your little name- 
sake to be my chef-d'oeuvre in that species of 
manufacture, as 1 look on 'Tam o' Shanter' 
to be my standard performance in the poetical 
line. 'Tis true, both the one and the other dis- 
cover a spice of roguish waggery, that might, 
perhaps, be as well spared; but then they also 
show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a 
fi||ishing polish, that I despair of ever excelling." 

Page 93, /. 46. The following lines orieinally 
occurred here: — 

Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 
"W'i' lies seamed, like a beggar's eloiit; 
Three jiriests' hearts rotten, hiaek as muck, 
Lay stniking, vile, in every neuk. 

They were omitted at the suggestion of Lord 
Woodhouselee. 

Page g-^, I. 8. It is a well-known fact, that 
witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to 
follow a poor wight any further than the middle 
of the ne.\t running stream. It may be proper 
likewise to mention to the benighted traveller 
then when he falls in with bogles, whatever 
danger may be in his going forward, there is 
much more hazard in turning back. R. B. 

Page 95, /. 26. " T.am o' Shanter," as already 
stated, appeared first in Captain Grose's "An- 
tiquities of Scotland." To the poem the editor 
appended the following note: " To my ingenious 
friend, Mr. Robert Burns, I have been seriously 
obligated; for he was not only at the pains of 
making out what was most worthy of notice in 
Ayrshire, the county honoured by his birth, but 
he also wrote expressly for this work the pretty 
tale annexed to Alloway Church." Grose's 
book appeared at the close of April, 1791, and he 
died in Dublin shortly after. 

Page 95. For information respecting Captain 
Grose's intimacy with Burns see preceding note. 

Page 95, /. 27. Vide his " Antiquities of Scot- 
land." R. B. 

Page 96, /. 8. Vide his " Treatise on Ancient 
Armour and Weapons." R. B. 

Page 96, /. 27. Var. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form! 

That woiited form, alas I thv dying bed; 

The sheltering rushes wliistling (I'er thy liead, 
The cold eartli witli thy blood-staiii'd busum warm. 
Perliaps a mother's angtiisli adds its woe; 

The plavf'ul pair emwil fcndlv by thy side: 
Ah! helpless nursliug-i, who will now provide 

That life a mother only can bestow? 



NOTES. 



592 



Page 96, /. 34. I'ar. 



The changes in this poem were made on the 
suggestion of Dr. Gregorj', to whom the Poet 
had sent a copy. 

Page 97. This poem was addressed to the 
daughter of Mr. Wilham Cruikshank, one of 
the masters of the High School of Edinburgh. 

Page 9S. Bruar Falls, in Athol, are exceed- 
ingly picturesque and beautiful, but their eft'ect 
is much impaired by the want of trees and 
hrubs. R. B. 

Page 98, /. 19, col. 2. Var. 

The bairdie, music's youngest ehilil. 

Page 99, /. II, col. 2. Mr. Walker in his let- 
ter to Dr. Currie, describing the impression 
Burns made at Blair, says, " The Duke's finf 
family attracted much of his admiration ; he 
drank their health as honest vien ami bouie 
lasses, an itiea wliich was much applauded by 
the company, and with which he has very felici- 
tously closed his poein." 

Page 99. The occasion of the satire was 
as follows. In 1786 Dr. \Vm. McGill, one of 
the ministers of .Ayr, published an essay on 
" The Death of Jesus Christ," which w.is dc- 
noiuiced as heterodox by Dr. Wm. Peebles, of 
Newton-upon-.Ayr, in a sermon preached by 
him November 5th, 1788. Dr. McGill pub- 
lished a defence, and the case came before the 
Ayr presbytery, and finally before the synod of 
Glas£;ow and .■\yr. In August, 1789, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Logan: "I have, as you will 
shortly see, finished the ' Kirk's .Marm; ' but | 
now that it is done, and that I have laughed 
once or twice at the conceits of some of the [ 
stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into | 
the public: so 1 send you this copy, the first I 
have sent to Ayrshire, except some few of the 
stanzas, which 1 wrote o(T in embryo for Gavin 
Hamilton, under the express provision and 
request that you will only read it to a few of 
us, and do not on any account give, or permit to 
be taken, any copy of the ball.id." With refer- 
ence to the ballad he wrote to Mr. Gr.diam of 
Fintry: " I laughed myself at some conceits in 
it, though I am convinced in my conscience 
that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it 
too." 

Page 99, /. 13. Kar. 

Brother Scots, brother Scots, wha believe in John 
Knox. 

Page 99, /. 17. Dr. McGill. 
Page 99, /. 18. J'ar. 

To strike wicked writers wi' terror. 

Page 99, /. 23. John Ballantyne, Esq., Pro- 
vost of .'Vyr. 

Page 99, /. 24. Mr. Robert .\itkcn. 

Page 99, /. 25. Rev. Dr. Wm. Dalrymple. 



Page 99, /. 29. Rev. John Russel : see " Holy 
Fair." 

Page 99, /. 33. Rev. James Mackinlay: see 
" Ordination." 

Page 100,1. I. Rev. Alexander Moodie: see 
" The Twa Herds." 

Page too, /. 5. Rev. Mr. .A.uld. 

Page 100, /. 6. Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 

Page 100, /. 9. Mr. Grant, Ochiltree. 

Page 100, /. 13. Mr. Young, Cumnock. 

Page 100, /. 17. Rev. Dr. William Peebles. 
He had written a poem which contained a ridic- 
ulous line: — 

And bound in Liberty's endearing chnin. 

Page 100, /. 21. Dr. Andrew Mitchell, 
Monkton. 

Page 100, /. 25. Rev. Stephen Young, Barr. 

Page 100, /. 29. Rev. George Smith, Galston : 
see " Holy Fair." 

Page 100, /. 33. Rev. John Shepherd, Muir- 
kirk. 

Page 100, /. 37. Mr. William Fisher, the 
" Holy Willie " of the famous satire. 

Page 102, /. 2. I'ar. 

The eye willi pleasure and amazement fills. 

Page 102. Miss Susan Dunlop, daughter of 
Mr. Dunlop, married a French gentleman named 
Henri. The young couple were living at Lou- 
don Castle when M. Henri died, leaving his 
wife pregnant. The verses were written on the 
birth of a son and heir. Mrs. Dunlop commu- 
nicated the intelligence to Burns, and received 
the following letter in return: " '.\s cold waters 
to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far 
country ! ' Fate has long owed me a letter of 
good news from you, in return for the many 
tidings of sorrow which I have received. In 
this instance I most cordially obey the Apostle 
— ' Rejoice with them that do rejoice.' For me 
to .r/«^for joy is no new thing: but to /reacA 
for joy, as I have done in the commencement 
of this epistle, is a pitch of extr.ivag.ant r.ipture 
to which I never rose before. I read your letter 

— I literally jumped for joy: how could such 
3 mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep 
his seat on the receipt of the best news from his 
best friend? 1 seized my gilt-headed Wangce 
rod, an instrument indispensably necessary, in 
my left hand, in the moment of inspiration and 
rapture; and stride, stride — quick and quicker 

— out skipped I among the blooming banks of 
Nith, to muse o\cr my joy by retail. To keep 
within the bounds of prose w.as impossible." Mr. 
Chambers traces the future history of Mrs. 
Henri and her son: "In a subsequent letter 
Burns deplores her (Mrs. Henri's) dangerous 
and distressing situation in France, exposed to 
the tumults of the Revolution; and he has soon 
after occasion to condole with his venerable 
friend on the death of her daughter in a foreign 



NOTES. 



1^ 



land. When this sad event took place, the 
orphan child fell iiiuici the immediate care oi 
his paternal grandfather, who, however, was 
soon obliged to take refuse in Switzerland, 
leaving the infant behind him. Years passed, 
he and the Scotch friends of the chilil heanl 
nothing of it, and concluded that it was lost. 
At length, when the elder Henri was enabled to 
return to his ancestral domains, he had the un- 
speakable satisfaction of finding that his grand- 
son and heir was alive and well, having never 
beeix removed from the place. The child had 
been protected and reared with the greatest 
care by a worthy female named Mademoiselle 
Susette, formerly a domestic in the family. 
This excellent person had even contrived, 
through all the levelling violence of the inter- 
vening period, to preserve in her young charge 
the feelmg appropriate to his rank. Though 
absolutely indebted to her industry for his bread, 
she had caused him always to be seated by him- 
self at table and regularly waited on, so that the 
otherwise plebeian circumstances in which he 
lived did not greatly aflect him. The subject 
of Burns' stanzas was, a very few years ago, 
proprietor of the family estates; and it is agree- 
able to add that Mademoiselle Susette then 
lived in his paternal mansion, in the enjoyment 
of that grateful respect to which her fidelity ;uid 
discretion so eminently entitled her. 

Page ID?. This epistle w.as prefixed to the 
edition of Sillar"s poems, published in K.ilmar- 
nock in 17S9. 

Page 104. The " Inventory* " was addressed 
to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the 
district. It was first printed in the Liverpool 
edition of the poems. 

Pas^e 105. " .^s the authentic prose historj'of 
the W histle is curious." writes Burns, " I shall 
here give it: — In the train of .Anne of Den- 
mark, when she came to Scotland with our 
James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish 
gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, 
and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He 
had < little ebony whistle, which at the c">m- 
mencement of the orgies he laid on the table: 
and whoever was last able to bl >w it, everybody 
else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, 
was to carr>- off the whistle as a trophy of 
victor\-. The Dane produced credentials of his 
victories, without a single defeat, at the courts 
of Copenh.igen. Stookhalm, Miscow, Warsaw, 
and several of the petty courts in Germany; 
»nd challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the 
alteraative of trying his prowess, or else 
acknowledging their inferiority, .\fter many 
overthrows on the part of the .Scots, the Dane 
was encountered by ."^ir Robert Lawrie of 
Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy 
baronet of th.it name, who after three days' 
and thrve nights' hard contest, left the Scandi- 
navian under the table, 

And lilew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 
Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, 
afterwards lost the whistle to Walter RXidel of 
Glenriddel, who had married a sLslec of Sir 



Walter's. On Friday, the i6th October, 1690, 
at Kriar's Carse, the whistle was once more 
contended for, as related in the ballad, by the 
present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; 
Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal de- 
scendant and representative of Walter Riddel, 
who won thj whistle, and in whose family it 
had continued: and Alex.ander Ferguson, Ksij. 
of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the 
great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried 
otVthe hard-won honours of the field. R. D." 

Oddly enough, on the i6th October, 1789, we 
havealeiier from Barns addressed to Captain 
Riddel, relernng to the B.acchanalian contest. 
" Big with the idea of this important day at 
Friar's Carse, I have watched the elements and 
skies in the full persuasion that they would 
announce it to the astonished world by some 
phenomena of terrific portent. Yesternight, 
till a very late hour did I wait with anxious 
horror for the appearance of some comet firing 
half the sky, or aerial armies of sanguinary 
Scandinavians darting athwart the startled 
heaven, rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid 
as the convulsions of nature that bury nations. 

" The elements, however, seem to take the 
matter very quietly : they did not even usher 
in the morning with triple suns and a shower of 
blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes 
and the mighty claret-shed of the day. For 
me, as Thomson in his lyiiiier says of the 
storm, I shall ' Hear astonished, and astonished 
sing ' 

The wl\ist!e and the man : I sing 
Tlie man tliat won tlio whistle." 

And he concludes by wishing that the cap- 
tain's head " may be crowned by laurels to- 
night, and free from aches to-movrow." Burns 
in his note is supposed to have made a mistake 
of a year. He s.ays the whistle was contended 
for on Friday, the i6th October, 1790: but in 
1789 the i6th October fell on a Friday, and in 
1700 it fell on a Saturday. 

It is not quite clear what share the poet took 
in the fray. Allan Cunningham states that the 
whistle was contended for '■ in the dii.ing-room 
of Friar's Carse in Burns' presence, who drank 
bottle after bottle with the competitors, and 
seemed disposed to take up the conqueror." 
On the other hand, Mr. Hunter of Cockrune, 
in the pari'^h of Closeburn, reports that he has 
a f>ertect recollection of the whole affair. He 
states that " Burns was present the whole 
evening. He was invited to join the party 10 
see that the gentlemen drank fair, and to com- 
memorate the d.iy by writing a song. I recol- 
lect well that, when the dinner was over. Burns 
quitted the table, and went to a table in the 
same room, that was placed in a window that 
looked south-east; and there he sat down for 
the r.iaht. I pl.aced before him a bottle of rum, 
and another of brandy, which he did not finish, 
but left a good deal of each when he rose from 
the table after the gentlemen had gone to bed. 
. . . When the gentlemen were put to bed, 
Burns walked home without any assistance, 
not being the worse of drin!^. When Burns 



'594 



NOTES. 



was sitting at the table in the window, he had 
pen, ink, and paper, which I brought him at 
his own request. He now and then wrote on 
the paper, and while the gentlemen were sober, 
he turned round often, and chatted with them, 
but drank none of tho claret which they A-ere 
drinking. ... I heard him read aloud 
several parts of the poem, much to the amuse- 
ment of the three gentlemen." It is just pos- 
sible that Burns is after all correct enough in 
his dates. His letter to Captain Riddel on the 
i6th October, 1789, although clear enough as 
to the impending '"' claret-shed," hardly sug- 
gests that the writer expected to be present. 
The theory that the revel had been originally 
arranged for that date, and, unknown to Burns, 
suddenly postponed for a year, would explain 
the matter. 

Page 105, /. 5. See Ossian's Caric-thura. R. B. 

Page 105, /. 9. See Johnson's " Tour to the 
Hebrides." R. B. 

" 1 have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscr.be, to the 
Right Hon. C. J. Fox; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines I have just rough-sketched as follows." 

The poet's MS. of the " Sketch " is in the 
British Museum. Dr. Currie altered one pas- 
sage as follows : — 
"With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No Mian with the half of 'em e"er went far wrong; 
"With passions so potent, and faiieies so briglit, 
No man with tlie half of 'em e'er went quite riglit." 

Page 108. Burns had sent a letter to Dr. 
Blacklock, under charge of Robert Heron, 
detailing certain recent changes in his circum- 
stances. The letter miscarried, and Blacklock 
addressed Burns in the following epistle : — 

Edinburgh, 2ith Axgnsl, 1789. 
" Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art; 
If art it may be called in thee, 
Which Nature's bounty large and free 
With pleasure on tliy heart diffuses, 
And warius thy soul with all the Muses: 
Whether to laugh witli easy grace 
Thy iminbers move the sage's face, 
Or hid tlie softer passions rise. 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis Nature's voice distinctly fflt. 
Thro' thee, her organ, thus to melt. 
"Most anxiiiuslv I wish to know 
With tliee, of late," how matters go : 
How keeps thy nmcli-loved Jean her health? 
What promises thy farm of wealth? 
Whether the .Muse persists to smile. 
And all thy an.xious cares beguile? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive? 
And how thy darling infants t'lirive? 

"For me, with grief and sickness spent. 
Since I my journey homeward bent. 
Spirits depressed no more I nxmrn. 
But vigour, life, and health return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy. 
And thus niy circling liours employ; 
Happy while yet these hours remain, 
If Burns could join the cheerful train, 
Wita wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 

"Tuos. Blacklook." 



To this graceful effusion, breathing interest 
and good wishes. Burns responded, in a light 
mood at first, but which becomes overclouded 
with bitterness towards the close. 

Page 109. In writing to his brother Gilbert, 
nth January, 1790, Burns says : — 

" We have got a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On 
New Year's Day evening, 1 gave hiip the follow- 
ing prologue, which he spouted to his audiencr 
with applause." 

Page 109. Miss Burnet, daughter of Lord 
Monboddo, celebrated in the A digress to Edin- 
burgh. This elegy seems to have cost the poet 
considerable trouble. In a letter to Mr. Cun- 
ningham, January, 1791, he says:— "I have 
these .several months been hammering at an 
elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss 
Burnet. I have got, and can get, no farthei 
than the following fragment." 

Page no. This epistle is supposed to have 
been sent to Mr. Peter Stuart, of the Star 
newspaper. From the remonstrance which 
follows it would seem that the newspaper did 
not arrive with the punctuality which was 
desired. 

Page III. Basil William, Lord Daer, son of 
the Earl of Selkirk, died in 1794, in his thirty- 
second year. Burns met him at Professor 
Dugald Stewart's villa at Catrine. 

Page III. Miss Fontenelle was an actress 
at the Dumfries' Theatre. In sending her the 
address. Burns writes: " Will the foregoing 
lines be of any service to you in your ap- 
proaching benefit-night? If they will, I shall 
be prouder of my muse than ever. They are 
nearly extempore; I know they have no great 
merit; but though they should add but little to 
the entertainment of the evening, ihey give me 
the happiness of an opportunity to declare 
how much I have the honour to be, &c." 

Page 112, /. 1. Var. 
The Rights of Woman claim some small attention. 

Page 111, 2. 9. Var. 
Our second Right but idle here is caution. 

Page 112, /. 15. I'ar. " 

Got drunk, would swagger, swear, kick up a riot. 

Page 112, /. 20. An ironical allusion to the 
saturnalia of the Caledonian Hunt. 

Page 112, l. 24. Var. 
Must fall before— 'tis dear, dear admiration. 

Page 112, /. 26. Var. 
And thence that life of life — mimortal Love. 

Page 113. Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, July, 
1794 : " I have presented a copy of your songs 
to the daughter of a much-honoured friend of 
mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote, on the 
blank side of the title-page, the following ad- 
dress to the young lady. 



NOTES. 



595 



Page 113, /. 35. Var. 

In strains divine and sacred numbers join'd. 
Page 113, /. 43. Var. 

As modest want the secret tale reveals. 
Page 113, /. 44. Var. 
Wliile virtue, conscious, all the strain endears. 

Page 114. Gilbert Burns doubted whether 
the Poem on Pastoral Poetry was written by 
his brither. Few readers, we fancy, can have 
any doubt on the matter. Burns is, unquestion- 
ably, the aiithor. The whole poem is full of 
lines which are " like autographs," and the four 
closing stanzas are in the Poet's best manner. 

Page 114. With reference to these verses 
Burns, in 1791, wrote Mr. Thomson; " Written 
on the blank le.tf of a copy of the last edition of 
my poems, presented to the lady whom, in so 
many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the 
most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris." 
The lady was Miss Jean Lorimer, daughter of 
a farmer residing at some little distance from 
Dumfries. Chloris was the most unfortunate 
of all Burns' heroines. While very young she 
eloped with a gentleman named Whelpdale, 
and was shortly after deserted by him. She 
died in 1831, having lived the greater portion 
of her life in penury. 

Page 115. Mr. Tytler had published an 
" Inqnii-y, Historical and Critical, into the Evi- 
dence against Mary Queen of Scots." 

Page 115, /. 37. An artist, named Miers, 
was then practising in Edinburgh as a maker 
of silhouette portraits. Burns sat to him, and 
to Mr. Tytler he forwarded one of Miers' per- 
formances. 

Page 116. This sketch is descriptive of the 
family of Mr. Dunlop, of Dunlop. 

Page 116, /. II. Afterwards General Dunlop, 
of Dunlop. 

Page 116, /. 13. Miss Rachel Dunlop was 
making a sketch of Coila. 

Page 116, /. 14. Miss Keith Dunlop, the 
youngest daughter. 

Page 116. Burns and Smellie were members 
of a club in Edinburgh called the Crochallan 
Fencibles. 

J'uge 117, /. 8. Mrs. Riddel, of Woodley 
Park, was the lady satirized in these verses. 
Dr. Currie, in printing them, substituted 
" Eliza " for Maria. 

Page 118. Miss Jessie Lewars' attended 
Burns in his last illness. 

Page 119. Mr. John Syme was one of the 
Poet's constant companions. He possessed great 
ta'ent, and Dr. Currie wished him to undertake 
the editing of the Poet's life and writings. 

Page 120, /. 41. Mr. Mackenzie, surgeon, 
Mauchline, was believed to be the gentleman to 
whom these lines were addressed. 



Page 111. In enclosing these verses to Mr. 
Creech, Burns writes: "The enclosed I have 
just wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn 
in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding." 

Page 122, /. I. " Auld chuckie Reekie:" 

Edinburgh. 

Page 123. In a MS. in the possession of the 
Publisher the two last stanzas are given. 

Page 124. Ruisseaux: a play upon the 
Poet's own name. 

Page 125. Mrs. Scott, of Wauchope, Rox- 
burghshire, had sent a rhymed epistle to Burns, 
displaying considerable vigor of thought and 
neatness of expression. 

Page 126, /. 57. Var. 

These tive and filly summers past. 

Page 127, /. 5. Var. 

Frae Calvin's fountain-liead tliey drank. 

Page 127, /. 20. Var. 

Or nobly swing the Gospel club. 

Page 127, /. 29. Var. 

While enemies wi' hiughin' spite. 

Page 127, /. 33. Var. 

But chiefly thee, apostle Auld. 

Page I-2J, I. 36. Var. 
To gar them gree 

Page 127, /. 3, col. 2. Var. 
I trust in heaven to see tlieni yet. 

Page 127, /. II, col. 2. Var. 

Auld Wodrow lang has wrought mischief. 
Page 127, /. 12, col. 2. Var. 

We trusted death wad bring relief. 

Page 123. The Rev. Mr. M'Math was, 
when Burns addressed him. assistant and suc- 
cessor to the Rev. Peter Wodrow, minister of 
Tarbolton. He is said to have been an ex- 
cellent preacher. 

Page 130. " Holy Willie " was William Fisher, 
the leading elder in the Rev. Mr. Auld's session. 
He was afterwards found guilty of embezzling 
money from the church offerings, and died in 
a ditch, into which he had fallen when drunk. 

Page 132, /. I. Written while Burns was on 
a visit to Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre. 

Page 132. Master Tootie was a dealer in 
cows, who lived in Mauchline. It was his 
practice to disguise the age of his cattle, by 
polishing away the markings on their horns. 

Page 133. The newspaper contained some 
strictures on Burns' poetry. 

Page\-i,\. John Maxwell, Esq.,ofTerraughty 
and Munches. He died in 1814, aged 94. 

Page 135, /. I. It is very doubtful whether 
Burns is the author of this piece published by 
Cromek. 



596 



NOTES. 



Page 135. The " Sketch " is a portion of a 
work, " The Poet's Progress," which Burns 
meditated, but of which hardly any portion 
seems to have ever been written. The imme- 
diate object of his satire is said to have been his 
pubhsher Creech. 

Page 138, /. 17. This ode was first printed 
in a London newspaper. 

Page 138, /. 34. I'ar. 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beyond the western wave. 

Page 140. Miss Ferrier, authoress of Mar- 
riage and Destiny. 

Page 140. Burns' illegitimate daughter mar- 
ried Mr. John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, 
and died in 1817. She is said to have been 
strikingly like her father. A coarser version of 
this piece is e.xtant, entitled " A Welcome to a 
Bastart Wean." 

Page 141. In 1780 Mr. John Goldie, or 
Goudie, a tradesman in Kilmarnock, published 
a series of Essays touching the authority of the 
Scriptures. A second edition of the work ap- 
peared in 1785. Burns' epistle to him, although 
written when Ayrshire was convulsed with the 
N'eiv Light and Attld Light controversies, 
was not published till t8oi. It appeared first 
in a Glasgow edition of the poems. 

Page ia,\,l. 16, coL 2. ]3r. Taylor of Nor- 
wich, tlie author of a work entitled " The 
Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin proposed to 
Free and Candid E.xamination," which was 
extensively read by the New Light party in 
Ayrshire at the time. 

Page 141. Mr. James Tennant of Glen- 
conner was an old friend of the Poet, and was 
consulted by him respecting the taking of the 
farm of Ellisland. 

Page 142. " The Esopus of this strange 
epistle," says Mr. Allan Cunningham, " was 
Williamson the actor, and the Maria to whom 
it was addressed was Mrs. Riddel." While 
Williamson and his brother actors were per- 
forming at Whitehaven, Lord Lonsdale com- 
mitted the whole to prison. 

Page 144. A person named Glendining, 
who took away his own life, was the subject of 
this epigram. Mr. Cunningham adds the fol- 
lowing particulars: "My friend Dr. Copland 
Hutchison happened to be walking out that 
way " — to a place called the " Old Chapel near 
Dumfries," where Glendining had been interred. 
" He saw Burns with his foot on the grave, his 
hat on his knee, and paper laid on his hat, on 
which he was writing. He then took the paper, 
thrust it with his finger into the red mould of 
the grave, and went away. This was the above 
epigram, and such was the Poet's mode of pub- 
lishing it." 

Page 144, /. 10. These lines form the conclu- 
sion of a letter written by Burns to Mr. John 
Kennedy, dated August, 17S6, while his inten- 
tion yet lield of emigrating to Jamaica. 

Page 144. "The Farewell" was written in 
the autumn of 1786, when the idea of emigration 
was firmly fixed in the Poet's mind. 



Page 147, /. 37. These verses were inscribed 
by Burns on the back of a window-shutter of 
an inn or toll-house near the scene of the devas- 
tations. 

Page 148. Major Logan, a retired military 
officer, fond of wit, violin-playing, and convi- 
viality, who lived at Park, near Ayr. 

Page 149. Gabriel Richardson was a brewer 
in Dumfries. The epitaph was written on a 
goblet, which is still preserved in the family. 

Page 150, /. 5. Written in reply to the min- 
ister of Gladsmuir, who had attacked Burns in 
verse rehitive to the imprudent lines inscribed 
on a window-pane in Stirling. 

Page 150. Written from Ellisland to his 
friend Mr. Hugh Parker of Kilmarnock. 

Page 150. These verses were originally 
headed, " To the Right Honourable, the Earl of 
Breadalbane, President of the Right Honoura- 
ble and Honourable the Highland Society, which 
met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakespeare, 
Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to 
frustrate the designs of five hundred High- 
landers, who, as the Society were informed by 
Mr. Mackenzie of Applecross, were so audacious 
as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords 
and masters, whose property they were, by 
emigrating from the lands of Mr. M'Donald of 
Glengarry to the wilds of Canada in search of 
that fantastic thing — Liberty." 

Page 151, /. 25. These verses form the con- 
clusion of a letter written to Mr. John Kennedy 
from Mossgiel, of date 3d March, 1786. 

Page 152. Lord President Dundas died on 
the 13th December, 1787, and Burns compo.sed 
the elegy at the suggestion of Mr. Charles Hay, 
advocate, afterwards elevated to the bench under 
the designation of Lord Newton. On a copy of 
the elegy Burns afterwards wrote : " The fore- 
going poem has some tolerable lines in it, but 
the incurable wound of my pride will not sufier 
me to correct, or even to peruse it. I sent a 
copy of it, with my best prose letter, to the son 
of the great man, by the hands of one of the 
noblest men in God's world, Ale.xander Wood, 
surgeon. When, behold! his solicitorship took 
no more notice of my poem or me than if I had 
been a strolling fiddler, who had made free with 
his lady's name over a silly new reel. Did the 
gentleman imagine that I looked for any dirty 
gratuity? " 

Page 153, /. 5. Written at Castle Kenmure 
at the retiuest of Mr. Gordon, whose dog had 
recently di^. 

Page 153, /. 9. These lines were preserved by 
Miss Louisa Laurie, and appear to have been 
written on the same evening with the well- 
known " Verses left in the room where he 
slept." 

Page 155, /. 9. " The Grace " was repeated 
at St. Mary's Isle at the request of the Earl of 
Selkirk. 



jVO tes. 



597 



Pag^e 155, /. 13. The mare, which was named 
after the insane female who attempted the life 
of George III., was the property of Burns's 
friend, Mr. William Nicol. 

Page 155, /. 29. These lines were written on 
a page of the Statistical Account of Scotland, 
vol. xiii., containing a description of the 
parish of Balmaghie. The minister, after 
quoting one of the simple, rude martyrs' epi- 
taphs, adds — " The author of which no doubt 
supposed himself to have been writing poetry." 
Tins captious remark called forth Burns's lines. 
The hook, with the poet's comment, is pre- 
served in the Mechanics' Institute, Dumfries. 
It is curious as the only expression of sympathy 
with the Covenanting cause which occurs in 
Burns. 

Page 156. While Miss Lewars was attending 
Burns she became slightly indisposed. " You 
must not die yet," said the poet; and writing 
the four lines on a goblet iie presented it, say- 
ing, " This will be a companion for the 'Toast.'" 

Page 156, /. 9. On Miss Lewars recovering 
he said, " There is a poetic reason for it," and 
wrote these lines. 

Page 156, /. 13. "The Toast" was written 
by Burns on a goblet, and presented to Miss 
Lewars. 

Page 157, /. 13. Mr. Chalmers was a writer 
in Ayr, and in love. He desired Burns to 
address the lady in his behalf. 

Page 15S. Burns arrived at Wanlockhead on 
a winter day, and was anxious to have the shoes 
of his mate frosteii. The smith was busy, and 
could not attend. Burns then scribbled these 
verses to Mr. John Taylor, a person of some 
importance in the place. Through Taylor's 
influence the smith's services were secured; 
and for thirty years afterwards it is said Vulcan 
was in the habit of boasting " that he had never 
been weel paid but ance, and that was by a 
poel, who paid him in money, paid him in 
drink, and paid him in verse." 

Page 158, /. 9. The note on which Burns 
wrote these lines is of the Bank of Scotland, 
dated ist March, 1780. 

Page 158, /. 19. The Lnyal Natives was a 
club in Dumfries, " more distinguished," says 
Cromck, " for drunken loyalty than for respect- 
ability and poetic talent." 

Page 158, /. 26. These lines — with one ex- 
ception, the only attempt of Burns in blank 
verse — occur in his common-place book, April, 
1783. It will be seen that the poet had not 
attained any considerable mastery over the 
most difficult of poetic measures. 

Page 159, /. 17. This epigram, it is said, 
silenced a gentleman who was talking mightily 
of dukes at the table of Maxwell of Terraught)'. 

Page 159, /. 25. These lines occur in one of 
the letters to Clarinda. 

Page 159, /. 37. These verses were first 
printed by Cromek. 



Page 160, /. 5. These lines occur in one o{ 
the letters to Clarinda. 

Page 160. Mr. Cobbett who first printed 
these lines, says: " It is our fortune to know a 
Mr. Kennedy, an aged gentleman, a native of 
Scotland, and the early friend and associate of 
Robert Burns. Both were born in Ayrshire, 
near the town of Ayr, so frequently celebrated 
in the poems of the bard. Burns, as is well 
known, was a poor peasant's son; and in the 
' Cotter's Saturday Night ' gives a noble 
picture of what we may presume to be the 
family circle of his father. Kennedy, whose 
boyhood was passed in the labours ol a farm, 
subsequently became the agent to a mercantile 
house in a neighbouring town. Hence he is 
called, in an epitaph which his friend the Poet 
wrote on him, ' The Chapman.' These lines, 
omitted in all editions of Burns' works, were 
composed on Kennedy's recovery from a severe 
illness. On his w.ay to kirk on a bright Sabbath 
morning, he was met by the Poet, who, having 
rallied him on the sombre expression of his 
countenance, fell back, and soon rejoined him, 
presenting him with the epitaph scrawled on a 
bit of paper, with a pencil." 

Page 161, /. 13. In some MS. copies these 
stanzas conclude " The Epistle to John Lapraik, 
an Old Scottish Bard." 

Page 162, /. 24. These verses, inscribed to 
Gavin Hamilton, were printed for the first time 
in Pickering's edition. 

Page 163, /. 17. These lines occur in a letter 
addressed by Burns to Mr. Robert Ainslie. 

Page 163. Burns in early life sketched the out 
lines of a tragedy, and the " Tragic Fragment ' 
was " an exclamation from a great character — 
great in occasional instances of generosity, and 
daring at times, invillanies. He is supposed to 
meet a child of misery and exclaims to himself." 

Page 164. The following fragments are ex- 
tracted from Burns' common-place book, but th« 
authorship is doubtful. 

Page i6s, /. 27. The Tailor's epistle is as 
follows. Burns' reply was first published al 
Glasgow in 1801. 

EPISTLE FROM A TAILOR TO ROBERT 
BURNS. 
Wh.it wacfu' r\r-\\s is this I hoar, 
Frac ji^reetiny I i-iin scarce f()rl>ear. 
Folk tell me, ye'or gawn art' this year 

Out o'er tlie sea. 
Aur lasses wham ve lo'e sae dear 

Will greet f..r"thce. 
Weel wad I like war ye to stay. 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
I ha'e a wfiril yet inair to say, 

Aiidmaylietwa; 
May lie protect us iiiglit and day 

That made us a'. 
Whnr thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, 
Seek Iliiii to bear thee companie, 
And, Robin, whan ye come to die, 

"Ve'll won aboon, 
An! live at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 



598 



NOTES. 



Some tell me, Rah, ye dinna fear 
To get a weun, nii' curse an' swear; 
I'm unco wae, my lad, tu hear 

O' sic a trade. 
Cou'd I persiiadi' ye to forbear 

I wad be g.ad. 
Fu' wcel ye ken ye'Il gang to hell, 
Gin ye persist in doin ill — 
■yVaes me! ye'rc hnrlin' down the hill 

Withouten dread, 
An' ye'Il get leave to swear your fill 

After ye' re dead. 
There, walth o' women ye'Il get near, 
But gettin' weans ye will forbear. 
Ye'Il never say, my bonie dear, 

Come, gie s a kiss - 
Nae kissing then — ye'Il grin an' sneer. 

An" itlicr hiss. 
O Rab! lay by thy foolish tricks. 
An' steer nae niair the female sex. 
Or some day ye'Il come through the pricks, 

An' that ve'll .see; 
Ye'Il fin' hard living wi' Auld Nicks: 

I'm wae for tliee. 
But what's this comes wi' sic a knell, 
Aniaist as loud as oTiy bell, 
While it does niak' my conscience tell 

Me what is true, 
I'm but a ragget cowt myscl', 

Owre sib to you! 
■We're owre like those whn think it fit, 
To stulf their inidillcs fu' o' wit, 
An' vet cinitent in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the liglit. 
To let Ihcm see down to the pit. 

That long dark night. 
But farewell. Rah, I maun awa', 
Jlay He that made us keep us a'. 
For that w ad be a dreadfu' fa', 

And hurt us sair: 
Lad. ye wad ne\er inend ava'; 

Sae, Kab, tak" care. 

Page 167. This epitaph, and the following 
epigrams, appeared in the Kilmarnock, but 
were omitted in the first Edinburgh and sub- 
sequent editions. 

Page 168, /. I. These lines first appeared in 
the edition published at Glasgow in iSoi. 

Page 168, /. 9. These lines first appeared in 
the edition published at Glasgow in 1801. 

Page 168, /. 13. On Burns' arrival at Inverary 
the castle and inn were filled with visitors to the 
Duke, and the innkeeper was too busy to pay 
attention to the Poet and his friend. The e|n- 
gram, which was first published in the Glasgow 
edition, is supposed to have been written on 
cne of the windows. 

Page 169. John Stewart, eighth Earl of Gal- 
1j v.ay, who died in 1796. Burns disliked this 
nobleman, and his dislike descended in a 
sh Aver of brilliant epigrams. 

Page 170, /. 33. Printed in Cromek's Reliques. 

Page 171, /. I. Printed in the Glasgow Col- 
lection, liioi. 

Page f;\,L 23. Printed in Cromek's Reliques. 

Page 172, /. 5. Printed in the Glasgow Col- 
lection, i8oi. 

Page 172. Captain Grose was extremely 
corpule'.it. This epigram was printed in the 
Scots magazine, June, 1791. 



Page 1-J2. Printed in the Glasgow Collection. 
1801. In a letter to Clarinda, in 1787, Burns 
refers to this epigram. " Did I ever repeat to 
you an epigram I made on a Mr. Elphinslone, 
who has given a translation of Martial, a famoits 
Latin poet'? The poetry of Elphinstone can 
only equal his prose-notes. I was sitting in a 
merchant's shop of my acquaintance, waiting for 
somebody : he put Elphinstone into my hand, 
and asked my opinion of it; I begged leave to 
write it on a blank leaf, which I did." 

Page 173. The epitaph was printed in the 
Kilmarnocicedition. " Jamie" was James Hum- 
phrey, a mason in Mauchline, who was wont to 
hold theological disputations with the Poet. 

Page 173. " Wee Johnny " was John Wilson, 
the printer of the Kilmarnock edition, in which 
edition Burns wickedly in.serted the epitaph. 
Wilson printed, unconscious that he had any 
other interest in the matter than a commercial 
one. 

Page i-TiJ. 5- This, and the two following epi- 
taphs, were printed in the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 173. In the Kilmarnock, Edinburgh, 
and several stibsequent editions, the first line 
of the " Bard's Epitaph " is printed : — 
Is there a whim-inspir'd fool. 
Page 174, /. 19. Printed in the Kilmarnock 
edition. In a copy in the Poet's handwriting 
the first line reads : — 

O ye who sympathise with virtue's pains. 

Page 174, /. 26. Goldsmith. R. P.. 

Page 174, /. 27. Printed in the Glasgow 
edition, 1801. 

Page 174,/. 41. Burns' friend, James Smith, 
of Mauchline. This epitaph was printed in 
the Glasgow Collection. 

Page 176. These lines were inscribed on 
a pane of glass in Mr. M 'Murdo's house. 

Page 177, /■ 2. The Right Worshipful Mas- 
ter, Slajoi-General James Montgomery'. On 
the 24th of June (St. John's Day) the masonic 
club in Mauchline, of which Burns was a 
member, contemplated a procession. Burns 
sent the rhymed note to Dr. Mackenzie, with 
whom he had lately been discussing the origin 
of morals. 

Page 177, /. 16. This tumbler came into the 
possession of Sir Walter Scott, and is still pre- 
served at Abbotsf ird. " Willie Stewart " was 
factor of the estate of Closeburn iii Dumfries- 
shire. Ke died in 1812, aged 63. 

Page 178. This song was composed in 
honour of Miss Wilhelmina J^le.xander, sister 
of the Laird of Ballochmyle, whom Burns had 
met in one of his evening walks. 

Page 17S, /. 15. I'ar. 

The lily hue and rose's dye 
Bespolie the lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Page 17S, /. 3, 2 col. Var. 

And all her other charms arc foil'd. 



'^ag-e 178, /. 5, 2 col. I'ar. 

O if 8lie were a country maid. 

Page 178. Burns wrote to Mrs. Diinlop, 
Dece.nber, 1791 : — 

" I have just finished the following song, 
which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, 
and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, 
and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs 
neither preface nor apology. The circumstance 
that gave rise to the following verses was, look- 
ing over with a musical friend M' Donald's col- 
lection of Highland airs, I was struck with 
one, an Isle of 8kye tune, entitled Oran an 
Aoig, or The Song of Death, to the measure of 
which I have adapted my stanzas." 

Page 178, /. 42. I'ar. 

Now gay with the bright setting sun. 
Page 179. /. 13. Var. 

Down by the burn, whore birken buds. 
Page 179, /. 21. I'ar. 

AUlio' tlie night were ne'er sae wet. 
Page 179, /. 33. The two first lines of this 
song are taken from an old Scotch bailed, 
printed in Johnson's " Museum." Mr. Cham- 
bers st.ites that the second stanza was designed 
as a description of Charlotte Hamilton. 

Page 180, /. I. This song was written when 
Burns brought his wife home to EUisland. The 
second line was originally — 

I'll share wi' nacbody. 
Page 180, /. 19. In B.irns' MS. this line 
stood — 

She is a winsome wee thing. 

It was altered, as in the text, by Mr. Thomson. 

Page 180. Duncan Gray was suggested 
h ! a somewhat licentious ditty published in 
Jo'Tnson's "Museum; " the first and part of the 
tliird line being retained. With reference to 
th.s song Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson, De- 
cember, 1793: — "The foregoing I submit to 
yo r better judgment : acquit them or condemn 
t lem as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan 
Gray is that kind of horse-gallop of an air 
wliicti precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is 
its ruling feature" 

Page 181, /. 13. I'ar. 

IIo-,v blest the wild-wood Indian's fate- MS. 

Page 181 , 2 col. About this song Burns wrote 
tj .Mr. Thomson, January, 1793 : — 

" The very name of Peter Pind ir is an acqui- 
sition to your work. His ' Gregory ' is beau- 
tif.il. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas 
in Scots on the same subject, which are at your 
service. Not that I intend to enter the lists 
with Peter; that would be presumption indeed. 
My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
h.is, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it." 

L>r. Wjlcot's s>ng (Peter Pindar) may be 
inserted here f)r purposes of comparison. 
" A'.i ope, I,ord r.rcgorv, thy door! 
A midnight wundeiir kiilis; 
Hard rush tin' rains, the tempests roar, 
And lightainga cleave tlie skies. 



" Who coiiies with woe at this drear night, - 
A pilgrim of the gloom'.' 
If she whose love did once delight, 
My cot sliall yield her room. 

"Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, 
That oiiee was prized by thee : 
Think of the ring by yonder burn 
Thou gav'st to love and me. 

" But should'st thou not poor Marion know, 
111 turn iiiy feet and part; 
And think the storms that round me blow 
Far kinder than tliy iieart." 

Page i?,2, I. 13, A song under this title ap- 
peared in Johnson's " .Museum" in 1788, which 
IS said to have been written by Burns. " It is 
so rude and wretched a production," says Mr. 
Chambers, " that we cannot believe many 
words of it to have been supplied by so mas- 
terly a pen." 

Page 182. The heroine of this song was 
Miss Jessie Staig. 

Page 183, /. 16. Var. 

As simmer to nature, so Willie to me. Erskine, 

Page 183, /. 19. I'ar. 

I31ow soft, ye breezes ; blow gently, ye billows. 
Erskine, 
Page 183, /, 22. Var. 

Flow still between us, thou dark-heaving main. 
Erskine. 
Page 183, I. 24. Var, 

While dying, I think that my Willie's mv ain. 
Erski.e. 

Page 183, /. 31. This and the following line 
were taken from a song, to the same air, written 
by John Mayne, afterwards author of the Siller 
Gun, and published in the Star newspaper in 

.789. 

Page 183, /. 13, 2 col. Var. 

Ye mind na, 'mid your erucl joys. 
The widow's tears, the orphan's"^ cries. 

Page 184. In July, 1793, Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson: — " I have just finished the follow- 
ing ballad, and, as I A. 1 think it in my best 
style, I send it to you. Mr. Clarke, who wrote 
down the air from Mrs. Burns' wood-note wild, 
is verj'fond of it, and has given it a celebrity by 
leaching it to some young ladies of the first 
fashion here. . . . The heroine of the foregoing 
is a Miss M'Murdo, daughter to Mr. M'Murdo 
of Drumlanrig, one of your subscribers. 1 have 
not painted her in the rank which she holds 
in life, but in the dress and character of a 
cottager." 

Page 184, /. 21. In the original MS. Burns 
asks Mr. Thomson if this stanza is not original. 

Page 184, /. I, 2 col. Var. 

Thv handsome foot tliou shall not vt 

In harn or byre to trouble thee. MS. copy. 

Page 184, /. 9, 2col. In August, 1793, Burns 
wrote Mr. 'I'homson: — "I have tried my hand 
on Robiti Adair, and you will probably think 
with liitle success; but it is such a cursed, 
cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair 



6oo 



NOTES. 



of doin^ anything better to it. So much for 
namb>r-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand 
on it in Scots verse. There I always find my 
self most at home." Pkillis the Fair is s.iid 
to have been Miss M'Murdo, — sister of the hero- 
ine of There was a Lass, — and with whom the 
musician Clarke (who gave lessons to the young 
l.idies) was in love. Fkillis afterwards became 
Mrs. Norman Lockhart of Carnwath. 

Page 184, /. 34, 2 col. A mountain west of 
Strathallaa, 3009 feet high. R. B. 

Page 185, /. 17. Burns wrote Mr. Thomson 
in August, 1793: — "That crinkum-crankum 
tune, Robin Adair, has run so in my head, and 
I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I 
have ventured, in this morning's walk, one 
essay more. You, my dear Sir, will remember 
an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cun- 
ningham's story, which happened about three 
years ago. That struck my fancy, and I en- 
deavoured to do the idea justice, as follows." A 
lady with whom Cunningham was in love had 
jilted him on the appearance of a richer lover. 

Page 185. In Aiigiist, 1793, Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson: — "Is IVhistle, and I'll come to 
you, my lad, one of your airs? I admire it 
much; and yesterday I set the following verses 
to it." In some of the MSS. the first four lines 
run thus: — 

O whistle, and MI oimf- to thee, my jo, 
O whistle, nnd I'll eonie to thee, my jo, 
Tho' fatlu-r and mother ami a' shoiilil say no, 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo. 

In 1795, Burns wrote to Johnson : — " In IVhis- 
tle and I'll come to ye, my lad, the iteration 
of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes 
what I think is sn improvement: — 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lart; 

O whistle, and I'll come to ve. my lad; 

Tho' father and mother and a' should srae mad, 

Tliy Jcaiiic will venture wi' ye. my lad. " 

Page 186, /. 33. In September, 1793, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson : — "I have been turning 
over some volumes of songs, to find verses 
whose measures wotdd suit the airs for which 
you have allotted me to find English songs. 
For Muirland Willie you have in Ramsay's 
Tea-tahle an excellent song, beginning, Ah, 
•why those tears in Willie's eyes? As for The 
Collier's Dochter, take the following old bac- 
chanal." 

Page 186, /. 13, 2 col. In a letter to Clarinda 
(supposed to be written :ibout February, 1790,) 
Burns writes: — " The following song is one of 
my latest productions, ami I send it to you, as 
I shoidd do anything else, because it pleases 
myself." It has been conjectured that Mrs. 
M'Lehose was the heroine. 

Page 186. In March, 1792, Burns wrote to 
Mr. Cunningham: — ". Apropos, do you know 
the much-admired old Highland air called The 
Siitor's Dochter? It is a first-rate favourite of 
mine, and I have written what I reckon one of 
my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it 
_aaS-ami£-witlL.£Lej>t applause in some fashion- 



able circles by Major Lobertson, of Lude, who 
was here with his corps." Allan Cunningham 
states that Wilt thou be my Dearie.' was said 
" to have been composed m honour of Janet 
Miller of Dalswinton, mother of the present 
Earl of Mar, one of the most beautiful women 
of her time." 

Page 187. In M.ay, 1794, Burns wrote to 
Mr. Thomson : — "Now, for si.\ or seven months, 
I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by 
and by. I know you value a composition 
because it is made by one of the great ones as 
little as I do. However, I got an air, pretty 
enough, comjxjsed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, 
of Heron, which she calls The Banks of Cree. 
Cree is a beautiful romantic stream: and as her 
ladyship is a particular fnend of mine, I have 
written the following song to it." 

Page 187, /. 26. Burns wrote Mr. Thomson 
in 1794: — " The last evening as I was straying 
out, and thinking of O'er the Hills and /ar 
aivay, I spun the following stanzas for it; but 
whether my spinning will deserve to be laid up 
in store, like the precious thread of the silk- 
worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile 
manuficture of the spider, I leave, my dear 
.Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was 
pleased with several lines in it at first, but I 
own that now it appears rather a flimsy busi- 
ness." 

Pas^e 187. In September, 1794, Bvirns wrote 
Mr. Thomson : " 1 am llallered at your adopting 
Ca' the Vowes to the Knoioes, as it was owing 
to me that ever it saw the light. About seven 
years ago I was acquainted with a worthy 
little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Climie, who 
sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. 
Clarke took it down from his singing. When I 
gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the 
song, and mended others, but still it will not do 
for you. In a solitary stroll which 1 took to- 
day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, 
following up the idea of the chorus, which I 
would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudi 
lies and imperfections on its head." The copy 
published in Johnson's " Museum " is much 
inferior to the text. 

Page 18S, /. ii. In September, 1704, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — "Do you know a 
blackguard Irish song, called Onagh's Water 
fall? The air is charming, and 1 have otten 
legretted the want of ilecent verses on it. It 
is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, 
10 expect that every effort of hers shall have 
merit; still I think that it is better to have 
mediocre verses to a favourite air than none a 
all." 

Page i83, /. 13, -i col. In sending this song 
to Mr. Thomson, 19th October, 1794, Burn 
writes: — " I met with some such words in a 
collection of songs .somewhere, which I altered 
and enlarged: and to please you, and to suil 
your favourite air, I have taken a stride or iwt 
across my room, and have arranged it anew 
as you will find on the other page." 



Page i88, /. 31, 2 col. The heroine of this 
song was Miss Lorimer, of Craigieburn. Dr. 
Currie prints the following variation: — 

Now to the streaming fountain, 

Or up the heathy muuiitain. 
The hart, liind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton, stray ; 

In twining hazel bowers 

His lay the linnet pours; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sanps o' joy j 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

When frne my Chloris parted, 

Sad, cheerless, broken-nearted. 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my 
sky. 

But when she charms my sight 

In pride of beauty's light. 

When through niy very heart 

Her heamin" glories dart 
Tis then, 'lis then, I wake to life and joy. 

Page 189, I. 19. In sending this song to Mr. 
Thomson, November, 1794, Burns says: — 
" This piece has at loast the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded." 
Page 189, 2. 1, ■z col. Var. 

And should the howling wintry blast 
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest, 
I'll fjiild thee to my faithiu' breast 
And comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Page 189, /. 9, 2 col. With reference to this 
song Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, 19th October, 
1794 : ^" I enclose you a musical curiosity, an 
East Indian air, which you would swear was a 
Scottish one. 1 know the authenticity of it, as 
the gentleman who brought it over is a particu- 
lar acquaintance of mine. . . . Here follow the 
verses I intend for it." 

Page 189, /. 25, 2 col. Bums sent the first 
draft of this song to Mr. Thomson in April, 1793. 
It was then .iddressed to Maria (supposed to be 
Mrs. Riddel). When he sent the version in the 
text to Mr. Thomson in November, 1794, he 
had made some inconsiderable alterations, and 
substituted Eliza for Maria. 

Page 190, I. 13. Burns wrote to Mr. Thom- 
son, November, 1794: — "Scottish bacchana- 
lians we certainly want, though the few we have 
are excellent. . . . Apropos to bacchanalian 
Bongs in Scottish, I composed one yesterday for 
an air I like much. Lumps o' Piiddiftg." 
Burns tells Mr. Thomson \n a passage sup- 
pressed by Currie, that he intended this song as 
a picture of his own mind. 

Page 190, /. 29. Clarinda was the heroine of 
this song. 

Var. 
Now in her green mantle gay Nature arrays. 

Page 190, /. 31. Var. 
And birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw. 

Page 190, /. 33. P'ar. 
The primrose and daisy our glens may adorn. 

Page 190, /. 35. i'ar. 
They torture my bosom, sae sweetly they blaw. 

Page 190, /. 36. I'ar. 
They mind me 0' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 



Page 190, I. 41. Var. 
Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow array. 

Page 191 , /. I. The heroine of this song was 
Miss Lorimer, of Craigieburn. 

Page 191, /. 17. In February, 179s, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — "Here is another 
trial at your favourite air. ... I do not 
know whether it will do." 

Page 191, /. 58. In May, 179s, Burns wrote 
to Mr. Thomson: — " The Irish air, humours 
of Glen, is a great favourite of mine, and as, 
except the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, 
there are not any decent verses for it, 1 have 
written for it as follows." 

Page 191, /. 62. Var. 

Far dearer to me are these humble broom bowers. 

Page 191, /. 63. Var. 
Where blue-bells and gowans lurk lowlv unseen. 

Page 192, /. 9. Miss Lorimer of Craigieburn 
was the heroine of this song. 

Page 192, /. 17. Var. 

Jeanie, I'm thine wi' a passion sincereet 

Page 192, /. 1,2 col. This song is altered 
from an old English one. 

Page 193, /. 25. The chorus of this song was 
originally written — 

O this is no my ain body, 
Kind though the body be, &c. 

Page 193, /. 27, 2 col. With reference to this 
song Burns asked Mr. Thomson: — " How do 
you like the foregoing? I have written it within 
this hour. So much for the speed of my 
Pegasus: but what say you to his bottom? " 

Page 194, I. 33. In the original copy this 
line stood — 

He up the Gatcslack to my black cousin Bess. 

And on 3d June, 1793, Mr. Thomson wrote, 
objecting to the introduction of the word Gates 
lack, and also to that of Dalgarnock in the 
verse which followed. On August 3d of the 
same year Burns replied: — " Gateslack, the 
word you object to, is the name of a particular 
place, a kind of passage up among the Lowther 
Hills, on the confines of this county. Dalgar- 
nock is also the name of a romantic spot near 
the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a 
burial-ground. However, let the first run 
' He up the lang loan,' &c." 

Page 19s, I- 27. About May 17, 1796, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — "I once mentioned to 
you an nir which I have long admired, Here's 
a health to them that's awa, hiney, but I for- 
get if you took any notire of it. I have just 
been trying to suit it with verses, and I beg 
leave to recommend the air to your attention 
once more. I have only besim it." Jessie, \\\e^ 
heroine of the song, was Miss Jessie LewarsJ 
who acted as nurse during the Poet's illness. 



602 



NOTES. 



Page 196, /. 16. Burns composed this song 
while standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, near 
Moness, in Perthshire, September, 1787. 

Page 197, /. II. This was the last song com- 
posed by Burns. It was written at Brow, on 
the SoKvay P>ich, a few days before his death. 

Page 197. William, fourth viscount of Strath- 
allan, fell at the battle of Culloden, while serving 
on the side of the rebels. In original edition 
in Johnson's Museum the first stanza runs as 
follows : — 

Thickest night, surround my dwellingi 
Howling tempests, o'er me ravel 

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 
Roaring by my lonely cave. 

Page 197, /. 37. Var. 

Farewell fleetiiip;, fickle treasure, 

Between Misfortune and Folly shar'dl 
Farewell peace, and farewell pleasure! 

Farewell Haltering man's regard 1 
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er me. 
Nor dare a hope my fate attend; 
.11 before me, 
jut a friend ! 

Page 197, /. 9, 2 coi. " I composed these 
verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raasay, 
alluding to her feelings on the death of her sis- 
ter, and the still more mclnncholy death of her 
sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, who 
shot himself out of sheer heart-break, at some 
mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged 
state of his finances." — B. 

Page 197, /. 2t, 2 col. " I composed these 
verses out of compliment to a Mrs. IVIaclachlan, 
whose husband is an officer in the East Indies." 
— B. 

Page 19S, /. I. The heroine of this song was 
Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, who was 
an inmate of Ochtertyre House, when Burns 
was there on a visit. 

Page 108, /. 6, 2 col. The heroine of this song 
was ISIiss Margaret Chalmers. 

Page 199, /. I. This song was written in 
celebration of Miss Jennie Crnikshank, daughter 
of Mr. Cruikshank, of the High School, Edin- 
burgh. 

Page 199. This song was composed by Burns 
when he w.is about seventeen years of age. 
The subject was a girl in his neighbourhood 
named Isabella Steven, or .Stein. According to 
Allan Cimningham, " Tibbie was the daughter 
of a pensioner of Kyle — a man with three acres 
of peat moss — an inheritance which she thought 
entitled her to treat a landless wooer with 
disdain." 

Page 199, /. 26, 2 col. " This song," Burns 
writes in a note, " I composed out of compli- 
ment to Mrs. Burns. N.B. — It was in the 
honeymoon." 

Page 200, /. I. This song was also composed 
out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. Corsincon 
is a hill at the head of Nithsdnle, beyond which 
Mr,. Burns lived before the Poet brought her 
home to Ellisland. 



Page 200, /. 25. With regard to this sonf; 
Burns writes: — "I composed it out of compli- 
ment to one of the happiest and worthiest mar- 
ried couples in the world, Robert Riddel, of 
Glenriddel, and his lady." 

Page 200, /. 1,2 col. " Composed on the 
amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord 
leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfor- 
tunes obliged him to sell the estate." — B. 

Page 200, /. 17, 2 col. Bums writes concern- 
ing this song: — "The air is Masterton's, the 
song mine. The occasion of it was this: Mr. 
William Nicol, of the High School of Edin- 
burgh, during the Autumn vacation, being at 
Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on 
a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol 
a visit. We had such a joyous meetmg, that 
Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own 
way, that we should celebrate the business." 

Page 200, I. 37, 2 col. In many editions this 
line is printed, " Wha last beside his chair shall 
fa." In Johnson's " Museum " it is given as in 
the text. It seems more in accordance with the 
splendid bacchanalian frenzy that he should be 
king who 

Rushed into the field and foremost fighting fell. 
Victory does not lie in stamina or endurance. 
For the moment intoxication is the primal good, 
and he is happiest who is first intoxicated. 

Page 2ot, /.I. At Lochmaben Burns spent 
an evening at the manse with the Rev. Andrew 
Jeffrey. His daughter Jean, a blue-eyed blonde 
of seventeen, presided at the tea-table. "Next 
morning at breakfast the poet presented the 
young lady with the song. 

Page 20I, /. 33. This song appears in the 
" Museum " with Burns' name attached. Mrs. 
Begg maintained that it was an old song which 
her brother brushed up and retouched. 

Pagc'zoj, I. 20. " Charming lovely Davies" 
is the heroine of this song. 

Page 203, /. 17, 2 col. yar. 

O wcels me on my spinnin wheel. 

Page 203, /. 18, 2 col. Vay. 

O weels me on mj' rock and reel. 
Page 203, /. 24, 2 col. Var. 

O weels me on my spinnin wheel. 
Page 203, /. 29, 2 col. Var. 

Alike to shield the birdie's nest. 
Page 203, /. 34, 2 col. Var. 

KnA echoes con the doolfu' tale. 
Page 204, /. 4. I'ar. 

Rejoice me at my spinnin wheel. 
Page 204, /. 7. Var. 

O wha would change the liumbic state. 
Page 204, /. 9 and 10. I'ar. 

Amai'.g t'.ioir flarin, idle toys, 

Amaug their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 



NOTES. 



603 



Page 204, /. II, 2 col. In the original MS. 
the name of the heroine of this song was Rabina. 

Page 205. It will be noticed that this song 
is not distinguished by botanical correctness. 
Into the Posie Burns has gathered the flowers 
of spring, summer, and autumn. 

Page 206, /. I. This song appeared with 
Burns' name attached in Johnson's " Museum." 
The simple and finer version which follows was 
sent to Mr. Ballantine in 1787. " While here I 
sit," Burns writes, " sad and solitary, by the side 
of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my 
wet clothes." 

Page 206, /. 45. This song was addressed 
to Clarinda. 



206, /. 47 \'ar. 
Dire was the parting thou bidst mc remember. 

Page 207, /. I. Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson, 
September, 1793: — " The following song I have 
composed for Oran Gcoil, the Highland air 
that you tell me in your last you have resolved 
to give a place to in your book. I have this 
moment finished the song; so yon have it glow- 
ing from the mint. If it suits you, well! if not, 
'tis also well ! " 

Page 207, 1. 47. According to Dr. Currie this 
song was composed in honour of Mrs. Stewart 
of Stair. Gilbert Burns thouglit the verses 
referred to Highland Mary. Afton is an Ayr- 
shire stream, and flows into the Nith, near New 
Cumnock. 

Page 28, /. 13, 2 col. Clarinda is supposed 
tobe the subject of this song. 

Page 208, /. 28, 2 col. The first four lines of 
this song are old. 

Page 2og, /. p. The foundation of this song 
was a short ditty, writtfti, it is said, by one 
Lieutenant Hinches, as a farewell to his sweet- 
heart." 

Page 209, /. 25. This song was composed in 
honour of Mrs. Oswald, of Auchiucruive. 

Page 209, I. 35, 2 col. Var. 

The tod was howling on the liill. 
Page 2IO, /. I. Var. 

The burn adowii its hazelly path. 
Page 210, /. 3. Var. 

To join yon river on the strath. 

Page 210, /. 9. Var. 

Now looking over firth and fauld 

Uer liorn llit* palo-f iced Cvntliia rear'd, 
■When, lo, in f.inn i/f minstrel an d 

A stern and s:alwarl gliaist appear'd. 

Page 210, I. \.-2 col. This song is supposed 
n cm.iecl itself with the attachment to High- 
la id Mary and the idea of emigration to the 
West Indies. , 

Page 211, /. 13. Written in celebration of 
the personal and mental attractions of Miss 
Chalmers. 



Page 211,/. 29. The chorus of the song is old. 

Page 211, /. 8, 2 col. Jean Armour is the 
yean referred to. 

Page 211, /. 9, 2 col. This is one of Burns' 
earliest productions. 

Page ■21-1,1. Q.%,2col. " I composed this song 
out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the 
daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, the 
authorof the air, Strathallan's Lament.'^ — B. 

Page 212, /. 1. The first four lines of this 
song are old. 

Page 212, I. 12. Var. 

The battle closes deep and bloody. 

Page 212, /. 17. The first stanza of this song 
is taken from a stall ditty, entitled 77«f Strong 
IValls 0/ Derry. 

Page 212, I. 33. Concerning this song Burns 
writes: — " This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who 
calls it a lament for his brother. The first 
half stanza of the song is old; the rest is mine." 

Page 213, I. I. " I composed this song," 
Burns writes, " pretty early in life, and sent it to 
a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of 
mine, who was at that time under a cloud." 

Page 213, /. I, 2 col. "This song," Burns 
writes, " is altered from a poem by Sir Robert 
Ay ton, private secretary to Mary and Anne, 
Queens of Scotland. ... I think I have im- 
proved the simplicity of the sentiments by 
giving them a Scots dress." 

Page 213, /. 33. " This song," says Burns, 
" alludes to a part of my private history which 
it is of no consequence to the world to know." 

Page 213,, I. I. Burns says: "This tune is 
also known by the name of Lass, an' I come 
near thee. The words are mine." 

Page 214, /. 25. These verses were inspired 
by Clarinda — the most beautiful and passionate 
strain to which that strange attachment gave 
birth. 

Page 215, /. 17. Allan Cunningham states 
that Burns considered this to be the finest 
love-song he had ever composed — an opinion in 
which few readers will concur. 

Page 215, /. 49. " These verses," says Burns, 
"were composed on a charming girl. Miss 
Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to 
James Mackittrick Adair, physician. She is 
sister to my worthy friend Gavin Hamilton, 
of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of 
the .\yr." 

Page 2i6, /. J4. This song was written so 111 
after Burns' visit to Gordon Castle in 1787. 
The variations are from a copy in the Poet's 
handwriting. 

Page 216, /. 37. Var. 

There inimix'd witli foulest staina. 

Page 216, I. 38. Var. 

From Tyranny's empurpled hands. 



6o4 



NOTES. 



Page 216, /. 1, 2 col. Var. 

1 leave the tyrants and their slaves. 

Page 216, /. 4, 2 co/. Var. 

Torrid f.ircsts, ever gay. 

Page 217. In September, 1793, Burns wrote 
to Mr. Thomson : — '^Blithe hac I been o'er the 
hill is one of the finest songs ever I made in 
my life; and, besides, is composed on a young 
lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely 
woman in the world." The young lady was 
Miss Lesley Baillie. 

Page 217, /. 17. The first and second stanzas 
of this song Hre by Burns; the third and fourth 
are old. 

Page 217, /. 33. In August, 1793, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — "That tune, Caiilii 
Kail, is such a favourite of yours, that I once 
more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot 
at the Muses; when the Muse that presides 
o'er the banks of Nith, or rather my old in- 
spiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the 
following." 

Page 217, /. 49. Burns wrote Mr. Thomson 
September, 1793 : — "I have finished my song to 
Sa-.u ye my Juithcr ? and in English, as you will 
see. That there is a syllable too much for the 
expression of the air is true; but allow me to 
say that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet 
into a crotchet and a (luaver is not a great 
matter: however, in that I have no pretensions 
to cope in judgment with you. The old verses 
have merit, though unequal, and are popular. 
My advice is to set the air to the old words, 
and let mine follow as English verses. Here 
they are." 

Page 2 1 8, /. 13. On the 19th October, 1794, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: — " To descend 
to business; if you like my idea of When she 
cam ben, she babbit, the following stanzas of 
mine, altered a little from what they were for- 
merly when set to another air, may perhaps do 
instead of worse stanzas." 

Page 218, /. 25. In September, 1793, Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson : — " Fee him. Father. I 
enclose you Eraser's set of this tune when he 
plays it slow; in fact he makes it the language 
of despair. I shall here give you two stanzas 
in that style, merely to try if it will be any im- 
provement. Were it possible in singing to 
give it half the pathos which Eraser gives it in 
playing, it would make an admirable pathetic 
.song. I do not give these verses for any merit 
they have. I composed them at the time in 
which ' Patle Allan's mither died — that was, 
about the back of midnight,' and by the lee- 
side of a bowl of punch which had overset every 
mortal in company except the hautbois and the 
Muse." 

Page 219, /. 9. In November, 1794, Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson : — " You may think meanly 
of this, but take a look at the bombast original, 
and you will be surprised that I have made so 
much of it." 



Page 220, /. 21. This is partly composed on 
the plan of an old song known by the sanic 
name. R. B. The ballad appeared in the first 
Edinburgh edition. 

Page 221, I. I. On the 19th November, 1794, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson : — " Well ! 1 tlii.-.k 
this, to be done in two or three turns across my 
room, and with two or three pinches cf Irish 
blackguard, is not so far amiss." 

Page 221 , /. 1,2 col. This fragment appeared 
in the first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 222, /. 33. This song appeared in the 
Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 222, /. 29, 2 col. This song appeared in 
the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 223, /. I. The poet proposed, for the 
sake of euphony, to substitute Liigar for 
Stinchar, but in all his editions, from 1786 to 
1794, " .Stittchar" is printed. 

Page 223, /. 33. This song was printed in the 
first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 223, /. 21, 2 col. Composed in August. 
This song appeared in the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 224, /. 29. This song was printed in the 
first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 224, /. 49. Young's Night Thoughts 
R. B. 

Page 225, /. I. In the autobiographical 
sketch forwarded to Dr. Moore, Burns writes 
— " I had taken the last farewell of my few 
friends; my chest was on the road to Greenock 
and I had composed the last song I should ever 
measure in Caledonia — 

The gloomy night is gathering fast; 
when a letter from Df . Blacklock to a friend of 
mine overthrew all my schemes, by openin 
new prospects to my poetic ambition." The 
song was printed in the first Edinburgh edition 

Page 22'^. The "Farewell" was printed in 
the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 225, /. 21, 2 col. Mr. Chambers states 
that the grand master reffered to in the text was 
M.ajor-General James Montgomery: elsewhere 
the grand master is said to have been Sir John 
Whitefoord. 

Page 225, /. 33, 2 col. Menie is the common 
abbreviation of'Marianne. R. B. This chorus 
is a part of a song composed by a gentleman in 
Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. 
R. B. This song appeared in the first Edin- 
burgh edition. 

Page 226, I. 29. Concerning this song Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson on the 14th November 
1792 : — " The foregoing song pleases myself; 1 
Ihink it is in my happiest manner: you will sec 
at first glance that it suits the air. The subject 
of the songisoneof the most interesting passages 
of my youthful days ; and 1 own that 1 should bt 



mms. 



THt 



much flattered to see the verses set to an air 
which would insure celebrity, Perhaps, after 
'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart 
that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits 
of the composition." 

Pa°^e 226. Burns stated, both to Mrs. Dunlop 
and Mr. Thomson, that Auld Lang- Syne was 
old. It is, however, generally believed, that he 
was the entire, or almost the entire, author. 
In Pickering's edition the following variations 
are taken from a copy in the Poet's handwriting. 

Page 226, /. 26, 2 col. Var. 
And never thou^lit upon. 

Page 226, /. 27, 2 col. Var. 

Let's Ime a wauglit o' Malaga 
For auld laiig sync. 

Page 226, /. 29, 2 col. Var. 

For auld laiig .sync, my jo. 
Page 226, /. 31, 2 col. Var. 

Let's hae a waught o' Malaga. 

Page 227. In September, 1793, Burns se.it 
this song to Mr. Thomson. " There is," he 
wrote, " a tradition, which I have met with 
in many places of Scotland, that it " (the old 
air Hey, tiittie taitie) " was Robert Bruce's 
march at the battle of Bannockburn. This 
thought in my yesternight's evening walk 
warmed me toa pitch of enthusiasm on the theme 
of Liberty and Independence, which I threw 
into a kind of Scotch ode, fitted to the air, that 
one might suppose to be the gallant royal Scot's 
address to his heroic followers, on that event- 
ful morning. So may God ever defend the cause 
of truth and liberty as He did that day. Amen." 
Mr. Thomson wrote suggesting alterations, and 
Burns replied: — "'Who shall decide when 
doctor? disagree?' My ode pleases me so 
much, that I cannot alter it. Your proposed 
alterations would, in my opinion, make it 
tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for put- 
ting me on reconsidering it, as I think I have 

much improved it I have scrutinized it 

over and over; and to the world, some way or 
othet, it shall go as it is." 

Page 1-2-j, I. 21, 2 cpl. In January, 179s, 
Burns wrote \x. Thomson: — "A great critic 
(Aikin) on songs says that love and wine are 
the exclusive themes for song-writing. The 
following is on neither subject, and conse- 
quently is no song; but will be allowed, I 
think, to be two or three pretty good prose 
thoughts converted into rhyme." 

Page 2^8, I. 2s. Of this song Burns says : — 
'The title of the song only is old; the rest is 
mine." In Johnson's " Museum " he published 
an early version, with the burden, " The 
gardener with his paidle." 

Page 230, I. 21. Gilbert Burns did not con- 
sider his brother the author of this song. 

Page 231, /. 22. This song, which became 
immensely popular at the time, was published 
in the Dumfries Journal, 5th May, 1795. 



Page 232, /. I. This was written in an 
envelope to Mr. Cardonnel, the antiquary, 
enclosing a letter to Captain Grose. 

Page 232, /. 2, 2 col. Var. 

Sweet and Itarmless as a child. 

Page 232, /. 13, 2 col. This was one of Burns' 

earliest compositions. 

Page 233, I. I. This song appears in John- 
son's " Museum " without Burns' name. 

Page 233. M 'Pherson was a Highland free- 
booter, of great personal strength and musical 
taste and accomplishment. While lying in 
prison under sentence of death, he composed 
his Farewell, words and air, the former of 
vhich began: — 

" I've spent my time in rioting, 

Debaucli'd'my health ant] strength; 
I sqnaiKler'il fast as pillage eaiiie, 
And fell to shame at length. 
But dantDiily and wantonly 
And rantonl'y I'll gae: 
I'll play a tune and dance it roun' 
Beneath the gallows' tree." 

When brought to the gallows' foot at Banff, 
he pl.iyed his Fareiuell, and then broke his 
violin across his knee. His sword is preserved 
at Duff House. 

Page 233, /. 6, 2 col. This ballad refers to 
the contest between Mr. Erskine and Mr. Dun- 
das for the Deanship of the Faculty of Advo- 
cates. On the i2th January, 1796, Mr. Dun- 
das was elected by a large majority. 

Page 234, /. I, 2 col. Another version of 
this song is printed in Cromek's Reliques. The 
text is from a copy in the Poet's own hand- 
writing. 

Page 236. On 12th March, 1791, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — ''Lest I sink into 
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on 
the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the 
page in my own way, and give you another 
song of my late composition. . . . You must 
know abeautifiil Jacobite air. There'll never be 
peace till Jamie comes home. When political 
combustion ceases to be the object of princes 
and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the 
lawful prey of historians and poets." 

Page 236, /. 17. In a copy of this song in 
the Poet's handwriting the first stanza and 
chorus are thus given : — 

There was a RiMl<ic horn in Kyle, 
But what na diiv o' what iin style, 
I doubt it's hardiv worth the while 
To be so iiiee with n;i\ie. 
Lecze nie on thy curly pow, 
Bonie Davie, diiintie l^avic: 
l/cpze on lUP thy curly now, 
Thou'se ay my daintie Davie. 

Page 2^6, /. 26. Jan. 25th, 17S9, the date of 
my hardship's vital existence. R. B. 

Page 236, /. 35. Var. 

ITc'll gie his daddic's name a blaw. 
Page 236, /. 6, 2 col. Var. 

Yc'll gar the lasses lie aspor 



6o6 



NOTES. 



Page 237, /. 13. On 20th March, 1793, Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson : — '' This song is one of my 
juvenile works. I do not think it very remark- 
able, either for its merits or demerits." 

Page 237, /. 13, 2 col. Var. 

Ami ay I miii't the witchhig smile. 
Page 237, /. 19, 2 col. Var. 

Wha spic'il 1 but my ain dear lass. 
Page 237, /. 23, 2 col. Var. 

Wi' fremit voice, quoth I, Sweet lass. 
Page 237, /. 32, 2 col. Var. 

And lov'lier look'd than ever. 
Page 237, /. 40, 2 col. Var. 

Sync wallow't like a lily. 
Page iy], I. 41, 2 col. Var. 

And sank within my arms, and cried. 
Page 238, /. 3. Var. 

Thuugli wealth be sma', we're rich in love. 
Page 238, /. 5. Var. 

Quo' she, iMy grandsire left me gear. 
Page 23S, /. 7. Var. 

And come, my am dear soger lad. 
Page ■22,?!, I. 17. Concerning this song Bums 
writes: — " The following song is a wild rhap- 
sody, miserably deficient in versification; but as 
the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my 
heart, for that reason I have a particular pleas- 
ure in conning it over.'' 

Page 239, /. I. Composed on the death of 
James Fergusson, Esq., Younger, of Craig- 
darroch. 

Page7.-it). " Bonie Lesley" was Miss Lesley 
Bailie, daughter of Mr. Bailie, of .•^y rehire. 
^Ir. Bailie, on his way to England with his two 
daughters, called on Burns at Dumfries. Burns 
mounted, accompanied them fifteen miles, and 
composed the song as he rode homewards. 

Page 239, /. 24, 2 col. Jean Armour is the 
" Mauchline lady " referred to. 

Page 240. " My Monigomerie's Peggy," 
writes Burns " was my deity for six or eight 
months. ... A vanity of showing my parts in 
courtship, particularly my abilities at a billet- 
doux, which I always piqued myself upon, 
made me lay siege to her." Burns, after he had 
warmed into a passion for Peggy, found that 
she was pre-engaged, and confessed that it cost 
him some heartaches to get rid of the affair. 

Page 240, /. 29. 2 col. Dr. Currie inserted 
this in his first edition, but withdrew it on find- 
ing it was the composition of Helen Maria 
Williams. Burns had copied it: hisMS. isnow 
in the British Museum. 

Page 241, /. 2t. a song, in several stanzas, 
similar to this occurs in the yoUy Beggars. 

Page 241, /. it, 1 col. This song was written 
on one of the anniversaries of Highland Mary's 
death. 

Page 241, I. 28, 2 col. Var. 
Eternity can not efface. 



Page 242, I. 3. ]'ar. 

Time but the impression stronger makes. 
Page 242, /. 6. Var. 

Where is thy i)!ace of heavenly rest ? 
Page 242, /. 41. Burns chanted these verses 
on hearing some one express his joy at General 
Dumourier's defection from the service of the 
French Republic. 
Page 243, /. 19. Var. 

The primroses blush in the dews of the morning. 
Page 243, /. 23. Var. 
No birds sweetly singing, no flowers gaily spring- 
ing. 

Page 243, /. 28. Var. 



Page 243, /. 32. Var. 

Alas! can I make you no better return? 
Page 245, /. 43. Charles James Fox. 

Page 246, /. 3. Thomas Erskine. A some- 
what different version of this piece is in Scots 
Magazine for January, 1S18. 

Page 246, I. I J. Bums writes: — "The 
chorus of this song is old; the rest of it, such as 
it is, is mine." 

Page 248. Thp " Five Carlins '' represent the 
five boroughs of Dumfries-shire and Kirkcud- 
bright, which were at the time contested by 
Patrick Miller of Dalswinton in the Whig, and 
.'^ir James Johnstone of Westerhall in the Tory, 
interest. Dumfries is " Maggie by the banks o' 
Nith; " Annan is " blinkin Besso' Ann;.i date;" 
Kirkcudbright "whisky Jean" of Galloway; 
Sanquhar " black Joan frae Creighton peel;" 
and Lochmabeu " Marjorie o' ihe monie Lochs." 

Page 248, /. 25, 2 col. Sir James Johnstone. 

Page 248, /. 33, 2 col. Captain Miller of 
Dalswinton. 

Page 249, /. 9. King George HL 

Page 249, I. 12. The Prince of Wales. 

Page 249, /. 25, 2 col. This song, founded 
on an old ballad, was printed in Johnson's 
" Museum." 

Page 250, /. 48. Var. 

Sae kend in martial story. 

Page 250, /. 26, 2 col. Var. 

I'll breathe this exclamation. 

Page 231, /. I. Concerning this song Burns 
writes: — " The chorus I picked up from an old 
woman in Dunblane; the rest of the song is 
mine." 

Page 2SI, /. 25. Another version of this 
song will be found p. tgi, I. i. 

Page 1^1,1. \\. Allan Cunningham inentions 
a report that Burns wrote these verses in humo- 
rous allusion to the condition in which Jean 
Armour found herself before marriage. 

Page 252, /. 21. This is founded on an old 
song. 



NOTES. 



607 



Page 252, /. 47. This is founded on an old 
song. 

Page 253, I. 23. This song was altered by- 
Burns from a Jacobite ditty. 

Page 2^^, I. 17. Another version of this song 
will be found p. iSi, 1. 24. 

Page 257, /. 33. It is doubted whether Burns 
was the author of this song. 

Page ■2^1^ I. 25, 2 col. Of this song Burns 
writes: — "These were originally English ver- 
ses; I gave them their Scots dress." 

Page 258, I. 13. Part only of this song is by 
Burns. 

Page2$Z,i. 31. Part only of this song appears 
to have been written by Burns. 

Page 258, /. 13, 2 col. Of this song Burns 
writes: — " The chorus is old; the rest of it is 
mine." 

Pa^e 259, /. \, 2 col. The foundation of this 
song is old. 

Page 260, /. I. This is founded on an old 
ballad. 

Page 261,1. 13. "The last stanza of this 
song," Burns writes, " is mine. It was composed 
out of compliment to one of the worthiest fellows 
in the world, William Dunbar, Esq., W.S. Edin- 
burgh, and colonel of the Crochallan Corps, a 
club of wits who took that title at the time of 
raising the Fencible regiments." 

Page 262, I. 1,2 col. The first four lines of 
this song are old. 

Page 262, /. 17. The second verse of this song 
is by Burns. 

Page 262, /. 33. Concerning this ballad Gil- 
bert Burns says: — " When Mr. Cunninghameof 
Enterkin came to his estate, two mansion houses 
on it, Enterkin and Anbank, were both in a 
ruinous state. Wishing to introduce himself 
with some eclat to the county, he got temporary 



erections made on the banks of Ayr, tastefully 
decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a supper 
and a ball, to which most of the respectable 
families in the county were invited. It was a 
novelty, and attracted much notice. A dissolu- 
tion of Parliament was soon expected, and this 
festivity was thought to be an introduction to a 
canvass for representing the county. Several 
other candidates were spoken of, particularly 
Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird 
(commonly pronounced Glencaird), and Mr. 
Boswell, the well-known biographer of Dr. John- 
son. The political views of the festive assem- 
blage, which are alluded to in the ballad, if ihey 
ever existed, were, however, laid aside, as Mr. 
Cunninghame did not canvass the county." 

Page 265, /. 9. Burns says the second and 
fourth stanzas of this song were written by him. 

Page 266, /. I. This song is founded on an 
old ballad. 

Page 268, I. 25. The last two verses of this 
song are by Burns. 

Page 269, I. 37, 2 col. The " Heron Bal'ads" 
were written on the ocrasion of the Stewartry 
of Kirkcudbright being contested, in 1795, by 
Mr. Heron of Kerroughtree in the Whig, and 
Mr. Gordon of Balmaghie in the Tory, interest. 

Page 270, /. 14, 2 col. Var. 

For now what he wan in tlie Indies 
Has scoured up the laddie fu' clean. 

Page 273, /. I. This song was produced at a 
festive meeting of the Kilmarnock Masonic 
Lodge, presided over by Mr. William Parker. 

Page.2-]'^, I. 7. Gilbert Burns was of opinion 
that his brother did not write this song. 

Page 277, /. 5, 2 col. Burns states concerning 
this song: — "I added the four last lines byway 
of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such 
as it is." 

Page 278, I. \, 1 col. The text has been col- 
lated with a copy in the Poet's handwriting. 



GLOSSARY. 



Page line col 

A', all 2 i6 

Ahu M, away /rotH 5 i 

Abeigh, at a shy distance ... S3 12 5 

Aboon, abov 79 ao 

Abread, abroad, in sight ... 74 27 2 

Abreed, in breadth 53 36 2 

Abusin', abusing 126 15 

Acquent, acquainted 201 18 

A'-day, all day 26 25 

KASe, putrid water 99 3' 

Advisement, advice 204 20 

Ae, one 25 12 

only 246 13 

K^,off 6 15 

AfT-hand, at once 30 9 

AIT-loof, extemporaneously ... 77 34 2 

Afore, before 46 19 

Aften , often 211 

K-^cy , off the right line ... 54 34 2 

Aiblins,/£'/'/j(j/.t 4 19 

Aik, an oak 89 12 

Aiken, oaken 234 9 

Ain, own 16 12 

Air, early 108 8 2 

Airl-penny, earnest money . . . 202 14 

Airles, earnest money .... 132 32 2 

Aim, iron 29 28 2 

Aims, irons 93 37 

Airt, direction 199 26 2 

the point front which the wind 

blo-.vs 210 27 

to direct 254 36 2 

Airted, directed 142 15 2 

K\\.\i'\ ati oath 11 18 

Aiths, oaths 80 22 

Aits, oats 6 30 

Awer, an old horse 37 38 

Aizle, a hot cinder 46 7 

A)ce.. to the one side 265 38 

Alike! alas.' 8 19 

Alang, along 178 4 

Amaist, almost 58 35 2 

Aniang, among 18 33 

An', and 2 16 

An's, and is 58 28 

Ance, once i 6 

Aae, ojte 11 21 

A lies, ones 4 8 

Anither, another 33 14 2 

Artfii', artful 223 10 

Ase, ashes 45 13 2 

Asklent, obliquely 140 19 2 

aslant 180 2 2 

Astcer, astir 46 32 2 

A'thegither, altogether .... 166 23 2 

Athort, athtuart 210 7 I 



Page line coL 

Atween, between no 34 

Alight, eight 53 27 2 

Aughteen, eighteen 239 14 2 

.\ughtlins, anything, in the least 151 8 2 

Aiild, old I 2 

Auld's, as old as 122 31 2 

Aulder, older 246 34 

Aui(i[a.rran, sagacio?is .... n 21 

Aunious, alms 48 10 2 

Ava, at all 2 14 

Avva, aivay 2 5 

Awe, to owe 245 32 

Awce, a little time 31 7 

Awfu', awful 93 47 

Awkart, awkward 77 28 

AwnK, bearded 6 30 

Ay, always 33 2 

Ayont, beyond 23 39 

BA', a ball 57 62 

Habie-clouts, baby-clothes . . . 213 i 

B.ickets, buckets 96 11 

Bade, endured 25 43 

desired 108 20 

Baggie (dim. o^ bag), the stomach 53 2 

Bainie, bony, muscular .... 82 

Bairns, children 29 23 

X^MTwUmc, a family of children . 37 23 

B.aith, both 415 

\i:iV.t:%, biscuits 17 30 

)in\\Mi,, ballads 114 20 

Ban', band 128 8 

Banes, bones 5 '9 

Bang, a stroke. An unco bang, a 

heavy stroke or effort ... 25 43 

Bannet, a bonnet 268 13 2 

hannocV, a cake of oatmeal bread 142 12 

Bardie, dim. of ^rtr(/ 92 

ViaTe({t, bare/boted '5 23 

Barkit, barked 4 10 

Barkin, barking 9 9 

Vt'A'cya, yeast 170 13 

Barmie, of. or like barm ... 34 20 

V'Mch , a pa rty '5 43 

Batts, the botts ^3 13 

Baiickie-bird, the bat 48 2 

Baudrons, a cat 3° 13 

Banks, cross-beams 45 25 2 

Bank-en', end of a bank or cross- 
beam 45 33 2 

hdiu\<i,bold II 25 

Bauldly, boldly 47 4 

Baiimy, balmy 205 16 

Bawk, an open space in a cornfield , 

generally a ridge left tinlilled 199 a 



6io 



GLOSSARY. 



Paqe linr c 
Baws'nt, haz>:'it^ a white strife dmvn 

the face '3' 

Bawiie, a familiar name for a dog 157 24 

Be't, he it 7 41 

Bear, barley 6 21 

Beastie, dim. of beast 5419 

Beds, adds fuel to fire .... 58 3 

Befa', befall 223 11 

Bchint, behind 10 32 

V'v\m\%, belong to 239 30 

r>claiig'd, belonged to 130 18 

Bold, balii 201 21 

Bclluin, a noise, an attack . . . 122 17 

BcUyfu', bellyful 71 20 

Belyve, by and by 62 10 

Yi^n, into the spcnce or parlour . 38 11 
Benmost bore, the innermost recess, 

or hole 49 4 

'Sid^xe^M., the grace after meat . 72 24 

Beuk, a hook 50 5 

Devil's pictur'd beuWs, cards . 6 4 

Bicker, a luooden dish .... 7 34 

a few steps unwittingly ... 20 18 

V>\A, to wish,or ask 150 26 

hide, to stand, to endure ... 13 14 

Biel, a habitation 71 32 

Bield, shelter 69 ai 

Viien, plentiful 57 22 

comfortably 203 19 

Pig, to build 267 33 

Bigg, to build ........ 265 3 

Bigs, builds 43 I 

Biggin, building 2 37 

Bill, a hull 31 24 

Billie, a goodfelloiu i 24 

Billies, vcungfello7vs 55 

Bings, Jieaps of anything, such as 

tu mips, potatoes 24 27 

Birdies, dim. of ^/>'i/j 196 24 

I?irk, the birch 148 15 

Birks, birches 179 13 

Birken, birchen 147 12 

Krken shaw, a small birch wood 198 6 

Birkie, a spirited fellow ... 17 23 

Birring, whirring 42 29 

Birses, bristles 151 i 

Bit, crisis 31 3° 

Bizrard cled, a kite 271 40 

B^zz. a t us tie 32 25 

Tizzy, busy 49 38 

Biz?ie, busy 126 7 

Tizzies, buzzes 121 7 

TIatk Bonnet, the elder .... 15 30 

B!ae, blue 127 9 

sharp, keen 141 24 

Tlastie, a term of contempt . . 74 27 

TIastit. blasted, withered ... 2 29 

Blaie, shamefaced 31 18 

TIaiher, /.'<j<fcr 8 37 

T>\mi<\, to slap 29 21 

a quantity of anything ... 77 3S 

T.landin'./f///«.^ 128 2 

Bl.iw, to blow 54 10 

to brag 76 37 

Bl.iws, blo^vs 191 6 

Biawn, blown 99 '5 



rage Unr cm. 

'B\xwr\'t, had blown it .... 50 34 2 

BIcatin, bleating 80 19 2 

Bleerit, bleared 182 19 

Bleeze, a blaze 93 8 

Bleezin, ^/a£/«^ 32 3 

Blellum, an idle talking fellow . 91 20 

Blether, the bladder 33 )8 2 

nonsotse 77 33 2 

Blethers, nonsense 33 23 

VtXciWxm, talking idly .... 15 35 

Blin', blind 180 10 2 

Blins, blinds 208 30 2 

Blin't, blinded 261 18 

Blink, a blink o' rest, a short period 

of repose 3 28 

a short time 19 14 

a moment 77 23 

a look 94 12 

Blinks, looks smilingly .... 3 45 

Blinkers, a term of contempt . . 9 16 

pretty girls 149 9 

Blinkiii, smirking 15 40 

Plirt and bleary ,_/f^j of crying . 254 32 
Blitter, the mire snipe .... 269 34 
Blue-gown, one of those beggars who 
get annually on the king's birth- 
day a blue coat or gown with a 

badge 81 20 

Bludc, blood 93 41 

Bluid, (5/<.var 10 33 

Bludie, bloody 137 27 

Bluidy, bloody '3 27 

BUime, bloom 206 2 2 

Bkinlie, a sniveller, a stupid person 203 6 

Blypes. large pieces 47 17 

Bockcd, vomited 55 " 

'&oAii.\&, a small coin 26 7 

Boggic, dim. of ^^^ 269 34 

Bogles, ghosts 92 44 

Bonie, beautiful i 3 

Bonnocks, thick cakes of oatmeal 

bread 12 14 

Boord, board 31 32 2 

hooxuces, elder shrubs .... 31 35 

Boost, must needs 36 35 2 

Bore, a hole or rent 93 9 

Bouk, a corpse 230 34 

Bouses, drinks 4 37 

Bow-hough'd, erook-thighed . . 207 9 2 

Bow-kail, cabbage 44 15 2 

Bow't, crooked 44 iS 2 

Brae, the slope of a hill .... 54 8 

Braid, broad 12 20 

Braid Scots, broad Scotch ... 27 35 

Braid-claith, broad-cloth ... 15 21 

V'VmV, a kind of harrow ... 77 19 

Braing't, reeled for'ward .... 53 40 2 

hv3.V, did break 32 3' 

Brak's, broke his 92 jo 

Brankie, well attired .... 269 62 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for 

horses 20 30 

Brany, brandy 125 36 2 

Brash, sickness 8 26 

Brats, rags 12 3S 

Brattle, a short race 53 20 :: 



GLOSSARY. 



Pnge 

Braw, handsome i 

"BrvMly, perfectly 25 

Braxie«, mcrhai sheep .... 79 

Breastie, dim. o( ireast .... 54 

Breastil, did spring up or forviard 54 

Brechan, a horse-collar . . . . 157 

Breck.-ui, fern 191 

Brec,y«/<.v, liquid 8 

Breeks, breeches 9 

Brent, straight 93 

smooth, un-orinkled .... 201 

Breuin, l>re<i<ing 29 

Brief, a writing 160 

Briij. bridge 25 

Brither, brother 79 

Brithers, brothers 11 

Brock, a badger 3 

Brogue, a trick 32 

Broo, vjater 27 

broth 163 

Brooses, races at country ■weddings 

n<h/> shall yirst reach the oride- 

groonCs house on returiUHg 

from chnrch 53 

Browst, as much malt liquor as is 

bretoed at a time .... 255 

Browster-wives, ale-kouse wives . 126 

Bnigh, bnrgh 25 

Brugh>, b-iroughs 9 

BruUie, a broil 80 

Brunstane, brimstone .... 9 

Brunt, burned 45 

Bnist, burst 9 

Buckie, dim. otbuci iii 

'B\ic\iskin, an inhabitant of Virginia 81 

Buff, to beat 127 

Bughiin-time, the t'me of collecting 

the sheep inthe pens to be milked 179 
Buirdly. strong, imposing-looking, 

well-knit 3 

Buke, ^<^ X04 

Bum, to hum 79 

Bum-clock, a beetle 6 

Buoiming, making a noise like a See 31 

Bammle, a blunderer .... 71 

Bunker, a chest 93 

Burdies. damsels 94 

Sure, bore, did bear 53 

Bums, streams ....... 43 

Burnie, dim. of ^»jrT« 47 

Bur.iewin, i.e. burn the wind, a 

blacksmith 7 

Bur-thistle, the spear-thistle . . 125 

Busking, dressing, decorating . 263 

Buskit. dressed 25 

Busks, adorns 114 

Buss, a busk 189 

Bussle, a bustle 10 

But. without 1S9 

But an' ben, kitchen and parlour 17 

By. past 32 

ap>trt 54 

By attour. in the neighbourhood, 

outside 234 

Byke, a multitude 52 

a bee-hive 164 



line coL 
13 
39 

38 2 
20 
9 
14 
27 
IS 



Page 

CA', to drive 32 

a call 47 

Ca'd, named i 

driven 91 

Ca's, calls 2 

Ca't, called 53 

Ca' throu', to push forward . . 268 

Cadger, a carrier 48 

Cadie, a fellow 12 

Caff, cliajf 41 

Cairds, tinkers 35 

Calf-ward ,rt smallinclosureforcalves 22 

Callans, boys 80 

CaWcr. fresh 14 

Callet, a trull 48 

Cam, came 29 

Cankert, cankered 124 

Cankrie, cankered 148 

Canna, canr.ot 10 

Cannie. cartfully, softly ... 12 

Cannilie, dexterously .... 17 

Cantie, in high spirits .... 4 

Cantin', canting 128 

Cantrip, a charm, a spell ... 93 

Cape-stane, cope-stone .... 33 

Cap'rin, capering 51 

Careerin, cheerfully 47 

Call, a carle 148 

Carlie, dim. of carle 249 

Czrlin, an old woman .... 11 

Cartes, cards 58 

Cartie, dim. o{ cart 159 

Caudrons, cauldrons 30 

Cauf, a calf 255 

Cauk and keel, chalk and red clay 95 

Cauld, cold 5 

Caulder, colder- 156 

Caups, ■wocden drinking vessels . 18 

Causey, causeway 27 

Cavie, a hcn-cot^ 51 

Chamer, chamber 95 

Change-house, a tavern .... 17 

Chap, a fellow 11 

Chapman, a pedlar 91 

Chaup, a blov.< 7 

Cheek for chow, cheek by jowl . 10 

Cheep, chirp 29 

Cheerfu', cheerful 58 

C\\\e.\i, youngfellows 3 

Chimla, chimney 150 

Chimlie, chimney 45 

Chittering. trembling viith cold . 55 

Chows, chews 7 

Chuckie. dim. ot chuck .... 108 

Christendie, Christendom . . . 200 

C\iVif^e^, fat-faced 10 

Clachan. a hamlet 20 

Claise, clothes 32 

Claith. cloth 23 

Claith'd, clothed 214 

Claithing. clothing 19 

Clamb, clomb 201 

Clankie, a sharp stroke .... 269 

Clap, a clapper 41 

Clark, clerkly , pertaining to eru- 
dition 124 



611 



line col. 
35 2 

3 
26 
25 
19 

12 3 
23 2 



38 



Page 

Clarkit, ivyote 38 

Clarty, dirty 170 

Clash, idle talk 34 

to talk 140 

Clatter, to talk idly 8 

Kintra clatter, the talk 0/ the 

country 252 

Claiight, caught 95 

Claiightin, catching at anything 

greedily 245 

Claut, to snatch at, to lay hold of 
a quantity scraped together by 

niggardliness 1B2 

Clantet, scraped 37 

Claver, clover 204 

C\3ivers, idle stories 114 

Claw, scratch 10 

Clean, handsome 200 

Cleckin, a hrood 122 

Cleed, to clothe 42 

deeding, clothing 148 

Cleek, to seize 50 

Geekil, linked themselves ... 94 

C\^2,^, gad-flies T48 

Clink, to rhyme 77 

money 142 

Clinkin, sitting down suddenly . 16 
Clinkuinbell, the church hell-ringer ig 

Clips, shears 33 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation 28 

Clockin-time, hatching-time . . 81 

Cloot, the hoof 32 

Clootie, Satan 31 

Clours, humps or sivellings a/ter 

a blow 80 

Clouts, clothes 29 

(1\q\\\, to patch 51 

a patch 231 

Clud, a cloud 

Cliids, multitudes 230 

C\\\e, a portion of cloth or yarn . 207 
Clunk, the sound emitted by liquor 
when shaken in a cask or bottle, 
7uhen the cask or bottle is half 

empty 51 

Coatie, dim. of coat 251 

Coaxin, coaxing 78 

Coble, a fishing-boat 53 

C ■c''., to erect 79 

C icks, good fellouis 81 

Coc'-cie, dim. oicock, a good fellow 108 

C"id, a pillow 250 

Co'er, to cover 52 

Coft, bought 94 

Cog, a wooden dish 7 

Coggie, dim. of cOjf 37 

Coila, from Kyle, a district of 
Ayrshire, so called, saith tra- 
dition, from Coil, or Coila, a 

Pictish monarch .... 79 

Collie, a country dog i 

Collieshangie,rt« uproar , a quarrel 110 

Commans, commandments ... 14 

Coinin', coming 132 

Compleenin, complaining . . . 202 

Converse, conversation .... 150 



lint col. 
27 
13 
27 
14 2 



84 !■; 
28 



Page lint cttL- 

Cood, the cud 7 i 

ilooh, fools, ninnies 57 3' 

Cookit, that appeared and disap- 
peared by fits 47 3 ' 

Coost, did cast 32 33 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish . 31 5 
Fowls whose legs are clad with 
feathers are also said to be 

cootie 42 30 2 

Corbies, cro7vs 27 45 

Coxn'x., fed with oats 53 ii 2 

Corss, the market-place . . . 151 27 

Couldna, could not 164 32 2 

Counted, considered 124 5 a 

Coiintra, country 5 2 

Coiithie, kindly, loving .... 45 21 
Cowe, to terrify. Cowe the cadie, 

terrify the fellow .... 12 10 

to lop 30 17 

a fright 80 13 2 

Cowp tne cran, to tumble over . 166 15 

Cowpit, tumbled 22 2 

Cowpet, tumbled 126 19 2 

Cow rin, coxvering 54 '9 

Cowr, to cower 128 i 

Cour, to cotver 94 33 

Cowt, a colt 37 37 

Cowte, a colt 104 24 

Cozie, cozy 18 7 

Crabbit, crabbed 63 

Crack, a story or harangue . . 10 23 

talk 19 18 

Crackin, conversing, gossiping . 4 7 

Craft, a croft 36 36 

Craft rig, a croft ridge .... 227 27 

Craig, the throat ..•..,. 96 32 

QT7(\z\e-, A\n\. o{ craig, the throat 51 17 2 

C'raigs, crags 146 16 

Craigy, craggy 89 45 

Craiks, landraih 84 25 

Crambo-tliiik, rhymes .... 71 14 

Crambo-jingle, rhymes .... 76 33 

Crankoiis, irritated 11 35 

Cranreuch, hoar frost .... 48 6 

Crap, to crop 84 12 

Craps, cro/,? , 34 27 

Craw, tocronu 42 30 2 

Crawlin, craivling 74 '• 

Creel, my senses wad be in a creel, 

to be crazed, to be fascinated 78 31 2 
Creepie-chair, the' chair or stool of 

repentance 213 9 

Creeshie, greasy 29 8 

QxocV^, old sheep 126 33 

Croods, coos 79 52 

Crooded, looed "242 33 2 

Cronie, a comrade 15 i 

Croon, a hollow and continued 

moan 47 92 

Croui:\\\c, crook-backed .... 46 29 2 

Crouse, gleefully, with spirit . . 4 7 

Crowdie,/(J/-/-/(/,!,v 231 2 

Crowdie-time, breakfast-time . . 15 14 
Crummock,rt staff with a crooked 

head 94 15 

CrunTO, crisp 15 27 



GLOSSARY 



(i\-\ 



Page line cot. 
Crunt, a hlcnu on the head viitk a 

cudgel 80 42 

Cuddle, to /oiidie loi 23 

Ciiifs, blockheads, in'imies ... 89 
Cummock, a short staff luith a 

crooked head 71 19 2 

Ciinnin, cuunitig 202 16 

Ciirch, a/einale head-dress . . 252 17 2 

Cvirchic, a curtsey 14 25 

Curmuiring, a rittitilirig' tio'se . 23 14 

Ciirpiii, the crupper 46 92 

Cur)jle, the crupper 125 28 2 

Cushais, xvood-pigeons . - . . 203 25 2 
Custock, the centre of a stem of 

(ahbage 45 5 

Cutty, short, bob-tailed .... 94 25 

Qui, fashion, shape ... . 96 2 2 

"CAVlDl'E., father 49 7 

Daez't, stupefied 161 52 

Daftin, merriment 2 7 

V>3.{\., foolish 4 27 

X)!i'i\h, deals of wood for sitting on 15 34 
Daimen-ickei, an ear of corn now 

and then 54 33 

Dnisie, the daisy 53 8 

Damies, dim. 01 dames .... 108 33 

Dam, water t3 40 

Y^AMon, to subdue 140 21 

Dang, knocked, pushed .... 239 8 2 

Dappl't, dappled S3 9 

Darin, daring 210 14 

Darklings, darkling 45 25 2 

Daud, to pelt 29 19 

Daudiii', /»<7//«^ 126 8 

Dauntingly, dauntlessly .... 233 22 

\)^\ix, lo dare 46 11 

T)-Awx\, dared 53 " 

Daiir na, dnre not . . ... 205 7 

Daiit, to fondle, to make much of 140 26 

Dawte, to fondle .155 26 

V>^wX\y. fondled , caressed ... 31 23 2 

Daurk, a day^s labour .... 54 12 

Daviely, spiritless 137 8 2 

Davie's, King David's .... 166 12 

Daw, da-ivn 200 23 2 

Dawin, the dawning 252 31 

TiainAi; lumps, large pie.es . . 18 36 

Dead-sweer, hut little inclined . 73 23 2 

Ileave, to deafen 30 23 2 

r)eils, devils 5 48 

Deil ma care, de^iil may care . . 21 38 

r)eil haet, devil a thing .... S 34 

Deleerit, delirious 46 17 

Delvin, delving 73 4'< 

"Dcicrwc, to describe 79 27 2 

Deservin, deserving 54 82 

Deservin't, deserving of it . . . 151 26 2 

Deuk, a duck 249 10 2 

Devel, a stunning blow .... 42 3 j 

Dictionar, a dictionary .... 122 27 

\i'\AiX[c, to strike or jog .... 148 30 

Differ, difference 41 22 2 

Dight, cleaned from chaff ... 41 23 

toivipe cfvay 51 i 

Hin, dun in colour 207 11 



Page. 1 

Dine, dinner-time 226 

Ding, to surpass 32 

be pushed or upset 36 

Dings, knocks 140 

Dinl<,Hta^, trim 246 

Dinna, do not 19 

Dinner'd, dined iii 

Dirl, a vibrating blow .... 21 

to vibrate 93 

Dirl'd, executed with spirit . . 239 

Disagreet, disagreed 127 

Dizzen, a dozen 5 

Dizzie, dizzy 77 

Tio<^Wx, daughter 248 

Doin', doijig 110 

Doited, stupefied 7 

Donsie, unlucky 41 

Dooked, ducked 50 

Dools, sorrcnvs loi 

Doolfu', sorrowful 122 

T)ooi, pigeons 230 

Dorty, supercilious, huffy ... 12 

Douce, grave, sober 27 

Doucely, soberly 9 

Doudled, dandled 262 

Dought, could, might .... 140 
Dought na, did not, or did not 

choose to 168 

Doup, the backside 101 

Doiip-skelper, one thai strikes the 

tail no 

Dour, stuiiorn 207 

Doure, stub''orn 55 

X)oui.e.x, more decorous .... in 

Dow, do, cati 19 

Dowe, do, can 165 

T>ovj((, pithless, silly 77 

Dowie, lo7v-spirited 33 

Downa bide, cannot stand ... 13 
Downa do, a phrase signifying 

impotence 249 

Doylt, stupid 8 

Ttoylm, walking stupidly ... 51 

Dozen'd. inipotetit, torpid . . . 141 

Dozin, stupefied, impotent . . . 202 

Draiglet, draggled 254 

Drants, sour humours .... 245 

Drap, drop, a s>nall quantity . . 7 

Drappie, dim. ol drap 161 

Drapping, dropping 62 

Draunting, drawling, of a slow 

enunciation . . • . . . 12 1 

Draw't, draw it ...... 166 

Dree, to endure ... ... 252 

Dreeping, dripping .... 33 

Dreigh, tedious ....... 53 

Dribble, drizzle ....... 54 

Driddle, to play so 

to move slowly ... ■ . . 148 
Drift, a drove. Fell aff the drift, 

wandered from hiscompanions 44 

Drcddum, the breech .... 74 

Drone, the bagpipe 222 

Droop-rumpl't, that droops at the 

crupper 53 

Drouk, to moisten 268 



6i4 



GLOSSARY. 



Page line c 

Droukit, ivei, drenched .... 201 22 

Drouth, thirst 10 9 

Droutby, thirsty 91 2 

Druken, drutiken 8 27 

Drumly, vmddy 4 37 

Drummock, meal and water mixed 

raiu 71 20 

Vlxxxnt., pet, sour humour ... 45 3 

Dry, thirsty 50 26 

Dubs, small ponds 73 42 

Duds, garments 32 26 

Duddie, ragged i 20 

TdwAd^e.^, garments 48 10 

Dung, knocked ...... 10 40 

Dunled, ieat, thumped .... 120 21 

\i\iLnX'!,, blows, knocks 180 12 

Durk, a dirk n 37 

Dusht, pushed by a ram or ox . 38 9 

Dwalling. diuelling ..... 104 6 

Dwalt, dwelt 207 17 

Dyvors, bankrupts, disreputable 

fellows 151 5 

EARNS, eagles 83 18 

Eastlin, eastern 141 24 

Ee, eye 25 24 

to watch 141 5 

Een, eyes 141 33 

E'e brie, the eyebrow 262 26 

E'en, evening 31 6 

E'cnins, evenings 77 24 

'Eerie, scared, dreadijtg spirits . 179 18 

Eild, age 26 2i 

Eke, also 108 34 

Elbucks, elbo7us 29 31 

'E\dir\iei\, frightful 16 33 

Eleckit, elected 126 35 

EUer, rt« elder 248 25 

En', end 261 22 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh 78 40 

Em'brugh, Edinburgh .... 137 24 

Enow, enough 5 24 

Ensuin, ensuing 54 4' 

Erse, Gaelic 32 13 

Especial, especially 29 13 

Ether-stane, adder-stone .... 263 2 

Ettle, design 95 ' 5 

Expeckit, expected 126 31 

Expec', expect 265 35 

Eydent, diligent 62 30 

FA', lot 32 22 

'?^,fall 57 23 

Y'nce'x, faced 54 8 

Y?iA.Aom\, fathomed 47 12 

Fae, foe 42 33 

Faem,yi)rt;« 6 28 

Faikit, bated 103 29 

Y3XXm%, failings 141 4 

Fair-fa', a benediction .... 72 i 

Fairin, a /;'c^i'«/, rt reward . . 23 36 

Fairly, entirely, completely . . 211 32 

FaWovj , a fellow 37 3 

Fa'n, have fallen 96 2 

Fan' , found 164 31 

Fund, found 79 '9 



Page 

Farh, cakes of oat-bread ... 15 

Fash, trouble myself 34 

Fash your thumb, trouble yourself 

iti ..he least 10 

Fash't, troubled 35 

Fashous, troublesome 142 

Fisten-een, Fasten's-even ... 75 

Fatt'rels, ribbou-ends 74 

Faught, a fight 190 

Fauld, a fold 100 

Faulding, yi'/rt'/;/^ 96 

Faulding slap, tlie gate of the fold 226 

Faun, fallen 205 

Faaf^e, false 129 

Faut, fault 164 

Faute,_/rt«/r 201 

Fautor, a transgressor .... 252 

Fawsont, seemly 4 

Fta.r{u', fearful 47 

Feat, spruce 44 

Fecht, to fight 4 

Fechtin,y?,^////«^ 32 

Feck, the greater portion ... 14 

Feckly, nwstly 104 

Fecket, an under luaistcoat with 

slee-ies 120 

Fe<iV\ei,%, powerless , without pith 72 

Feg, a fig 57 

Fe:\Ae,feud 43 

Feirie, clever 249 

FeW, the flesh immediately tinder 

the skin 30 

keen, biting 55 

nippy, tasty 63 

Fen, a successful strtiggle, a shift 201 

FenA, to keep off 15 

to live comfortably 33 

Ferlie, to wonder 3 

a term of contejnpt .... 74 

Fetch't, pulled intermittently . 53 

Fey, predestined 230 

Fidge, to fidget 10 

F\d'g\ri-iMa,fidgettingwith eager- 
ness 76 

Fiel, soft, smooth 203 

Fient, a petty oath. The fient a, 

the devil a bit of i 

F\er, healthy , sound 57 

brother, friend 108 

Fiere, frietid, co»trade ..... 227 

Fillie, a filly 104 

F'm' , find 142 

Fissle, to fidget 77 

F'\X,foot 45 

Fittie-lan, the near horse of the 

hindmost pair i/t the plough .53 
Fizz, to }nake a hissing noise like 

fertnentation 7 

FXMan, flapping, fluttering . . 151 

Flae, a flea 165 

F\?M.%, did fling or caper ... 94 

F\ax\ne.\\, flannel 74 

F\-X'c\\\, flaring 204 

F\mx' x\n, flattering 72 

Fleech'd, supplicated 180 

Fleechin, supplicating .... 72 



line col. 
26 
29 



GLOSSARY. 



615 



Page line col. 

Fleesh, a fleece 33 3' 2 

Fleg, a kick, a randatn stroke . 78 i 

a sudden motion 144 33 

Fleth'rin, _/7rt^/c>-/«^ 72 26 

YXai'xKy a sharp blo^u 166 16 2 

Fley'd, scared 20 38 

VXxi^W.QxXn , fluttering .... 62 4 

Flit, a fly 52 21 

Flinders, shreds 71 40 

Flinging, caperirig 94 15 

Flingin-tree, a flail 38 7 

Fliskit,yrf/^c^ 53 3' 2 

Flit, remove 54 15 2 

Y\M.^xm%,flutteri>ig 226 18 

Flyte, to scold 262 8 2 

YoCi%,^\, squat or plump .... 95 34 

Foor, to fare 267 25 

Foord, a ford 31 33 2 

7ooriAAy, late in the afternoon .159 12 

Yoiheats,, forefathers 33 15 

Forbye, besides 22 25 

Forfairn, luom-ojit , jaded ... 26 21 

Forfoughten,_/rt//;^«tv/ .... 125 5 
Forgather, to incike acquaintance 

•with 33 72 

Forgather'd, met i 6 

Yo\%\e.,forgiz'e 72 34 2 

Yor]cske\, Jaded ^uith fatigue . . 77 24 

Yoxrit, forward 114 52 

For't,y;)>' it 23 28 

Father, fodder 104 37 

FoUffull 17 40 

tipsy 20 2 

a bushel 54 10 2 

Foughten, troubled 4 45 

Fouth, an abundance .... 96 7 

FTae,from 2 23 

Frainmit, estranged 249 34 

Freath, tofroth 7 39 

Fremit, strange, foreign . . . 164 4 

Frien',yV'/>«<j' 58 44 

Fright, a person or thing of an 

extraordinary aspect . . . 122 11 

Fu', full 29 II 2 

Fud, the sent tf the hare ... 42 31 2 

FufTt, did blo^u 46 5 

Fumblin', aiiikzvard 8 g 

Furder, furtherance 125 37 

Furms, wooden forms or seats . 18 33 

Furnicator,y6'>"«/(rrt/'o/' .... i65 i 2 
Furr-ahin, the hindmost horse on 

the right hand of the plough . 104 20 

FuTT=.,furro7iis 14 7 

Fuihiordcsi, pithless 249 16 

Fy, an exclamation of haste . . 141 15 

Fyke, to be in a fuss about trifles 71 33 

Fy\e., to soil or dirty 207 24 2 

Fyl'd, dirtied 16 3 

GKVi, to speak fluently .... 11 2 

the tnouth 30 2 

Gabs, tongues 44 72 

Gae, go 711 

gave 47 ^ 

Gaed, walked 14 16 

ivent 15 14 



Page 

Gaen, gone 21 

Gaets, tnanners 33 

Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth 
inserted at the bottom of a 

shift or robe 246 

Gane, gone 19 

Gang, to go I 

Gangrel, vagrant 48 

Gapin, ^irr//«^ 141 

Gar, to make 11 

Gar't, made 53 

GaxXen, garter 44 

Gash, sagacious i 

Gashin, conversing 45 

Oat,^o/ 31 

Gate, >nanner 4 

way or road 4 

Gany, gouty 126 

Gaucie, comfortable looking . . 18 

Gaud, the plough shaft .... 233 
Gaudsman , a ploughboy, the boy who 

drives the licrses in the plough 104 

Gauw, going 4 

Gaunted, jyrt7ti«^<^ no 

Ga\vc\e, Jolly, large i 

Gawkies, foolish persons . . . 122 

Gaylies, />ri?/;'j' uiell 151 

Gear, wealth, goods 4 

Weel-hain'd gear, well saved . 27 

drink 151 

GecU, to toss the head in wanton- 
ness or scorn 37 

Ged%,pike 42 

Gentles, great folks 7 

Genty, slender 211 

Geordie, George. The yellow let- 

ter'd Geordie, a guinea . . 2 

G,et, offspring 33 

Ghaists, ghosts 20 

Gie, giz'e g 

Gied, gave 32 

Gien,^/z'<'« 71 

G\ex\, given 14 

Gi\e%,give us 21 

Gif, if 45 

Giftie, dim. oi gift 74 

G'x'fi^et'f., playful children . . . loi 

Gillie, dim. of ^/// 71 

('•Wyiey, a young girl 46 

Ginimer, a ewe from one to two 

years old 23 

Gin,'{/" 15 

Gipsie, gipsy lo' 

Girdle, a circular plate of iron 

for toasting cakes on the fire 48 

Girn, to grin 33 

Girrs, hoops 264 

Gizz, a ivig 32 

GlaiUit, thoughtless 41 

Glaizie, glittering 53 

Glamor, ^/rtwc«r 95 

G\a\\md, grasped 230 

Gled, a kite 216 

Gleed, a live coal 252 

Gleg, sharp 43 

cleverly, swiftly 96 



line col. 
35 



6i6 



GLOSSARY. 



Page 

Gleib, a glebe 203 

Glib-gabbet, thai speaks smoothly 

and readily 11 

Glinted, glanced 69 

GXxvAva, glaricing 14 

Gloamin, twilight 6 

Gloamin-shot.rt twilight intervie-w 255 

Glowran, staring 52 

Glowr'd, looked earnestly, stared 14 

Glunch, afroDjn 8 

Goavan, looking round ivith a 
strange, iitquiring gaze , star- 
ing stupidly Ill 

Gotten , got 79 

Gowan, the daisy 191 

Gawany, daisied 114 

Gowd, gold 81 

Gov;Aen, goldett 114 

GoviS" A, knocked hit her ayid thither 222 

Gowk, a foolish person .... 26 

Gowling, ho2oling 73 

Graff, n grave 167 

Grained, grinned 22 

Graip, a pronged instrutnent/or 

cleaning stables 46 

Graith, harness, field implemetits 7 

accoutrements 15 

Granes, groans 5 

Grape, to grope 44 

Graped, groped 171 

Grapit, groped 45 

Grat, ivept i8o 

Gratefu', .gr-rt^^y)*/ 72 

Grannie, grandmother .... 31 

Gree, a prize 79 

to agree 132 

Gree't, agreed . 21 

Greet, to ^oecp n 

Greetin, tveeping 10 

Griens, covets, longs for . . . 271 

Grievin, grieving 43 

Grippet, gripped, caught hold of . 45 

Grissle, gristle 77 

Grit, great 131 

Grozet, a gooseberry 74 

Grumphie, tlie sow 46 

Grun", the ground 131 

Grunstane, a grindstotie ... 73 

Gruntle, the countenance ... 8 

a gruntitig noise 46 

Griinzie, the mouth 207 

Grushie, thick, of thriving gronvth 3 

Grusome, ill favoured . . . . 170 

Grntten, ivept 137 

Gude, the Supreme Being . . 33 

good 50 

Gudeen , good e7'en 164 

Gudeman, good man 20 

Gudes, goods, tnerchandise . . 271 

Guid, good 4 

Guid-e'en, good even 20 

Guid-mornin, ^(W wor«/«^ . . 36 

G\ud{ctlhcr,father-in-laiu ... 53 

Guidwife, the mistress of the house 125 

the landlady 201 

Gully, a large knife 20 



line col. \ 


ID 




19 




IS 
6 




10 




41 




3 




10 




39 




10 


2 


8 




30 
16 


2 


25 




12 


2 


26 




It 


2 


I 


2 


37 




8 


2 


38 




19 




20 




12 


2 


21 




25 


2 


10 


2 


23 


2 


25 




35 




31 
6 


2 


6 




25 




32 




24 




14 




12 


2 


22 




13 


2 


32 


2 


34 




32 




39 




20 


2 


22 


2 


30 




I 




10 


2 


6 


2 


6 


2 


8 


2 


43 




12 


2 


6 




31 




10 




20 




I 




33 


2 


42 





Page line eol. 

Gulravage, riot 128 3 

Gumlie, muddy, discoloured . . 26 38 

Gumption, miderstaytding . . . 141 12 2 

Gusty, tasteful 7 3^ 

Gutcher, grandfather .... 254 25 2 

HA', hall 95 72 

Ha' Bible, hall-Bible 63 38 

Ha' folk, servants 2 26 

Haddin, holding, inheritance . 270 11 2 

Hae, have 4 10 

here (in the sense oi take) . . 151 41 2 
Haet, the least thing. Deil haet, 

an oath 0/ negation .... 5 34 

Damn'd haet, nothing .... 21 34 

Ha'f, the half 165 31 

Haff, the half 140 22 2 

Haflets, the temples 63 40 

Haffet locks, locks at the temples 257 18 

Haftlins, partly 62 44 

Hafflins-wise, almost half ... 17 26 
Hag, a scar, or gulf in }nosses a>td 

moors 43 7 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled 

in the stomach of a co7u or 

sheep 72 24 2 

^\xw\, to spare, to save .... 79 9 

Hain'd, spared 54 16 2 

Hairst, harvest 46 19 

\\.3k\\i, a petty oath 4 21 

Haivers, idle talk 125 14 

Hal", hall 57 14 2 

Hald, an abiding-place .... 54 2S 2 
Hale, whole, entire; Hale breeks, 

breeches without holes , . 9 20 

U7tinjured 95 '7 

Haly, holy 93 3^ 

Hallan, a particular partition 

wall in a cottage 63 29 

Hallions, clo^vns, common fellows 151 1 2 

Hallowmas, the 31^^ of October . 165 8 

Hame, hotne 23 23 

Hamely, homely 53 29 

Han', hand 9 15 

Han' afore, the foremost horse on 

the left hand in the plough . 104 8 
Han' ahin, the hindmost horse on 

the left hand in the plough . 104 10 

Hand-breed, a hand-breadth . . 207 13 2 
Hand-waled, carefully chosen by 

hand 148 29 2 

Handless, luithout hands, useless, 

aivkivard 164 35 2 

Hangit, hanged 251 6 2 

Hansel, hansel throne, a throne 

newly inherited 234 27 

a gift for a particular season, 

or the first money on any 

particular occasion • . . 236 28 

Han't, handed 204 39 

Hap, to wrap 71 32 

Winter hap, winter clothing . 24 25 

Hap, hop 130 28 

Ha'pence, halfpence 15 29 

Happer, a hopper 41 25 

Happing, koppitig 55 19 



GLOSSARY. 



617 



Page line col. 
Hap-step-an'-lowp, hofi, step and 

jump, with a light airy step 14 23 

Harkit, hearkeiied 38 25 

Kvirn, yarn 94 27 

Har'sts, har7'ests 101 z 2 

Hash, a soft, useless fcUoiu ... 8 27 

Hash'd, did smite, did disfigure 230 i 2 
Haslock, descriptive of the fittest 
ivool.beit!gthe loc/c that groius 

on the hnis, or throat . . . 256 9 2 

Has't, has it 22 22 

Hastit, hasted 54 n 

Haud, to hold 9^5 

•would keep 96 9 

Hauds. holds 223 25 

Haiif, the half 161 7 2 

Yi7iM^s,loiv-lyinglafids,meado'tVS 6 29 
Hauns, hands as applied to work- 
men, persons 103 29 

Haurl, to drag 83 19 

Haurls, drags 46 82 

\\.2A\xX\r\, peeling, dragging ofif , 47 19 

Hauver, oatmeal 262 17 

Havins, good manners .... 33 22 

Hav'rel, half-witted 44 14 2 

Hawkie, a co^u, properly one ivith 

a white face 31 23 2 

Healsome, -Mholesome .... 63 27 

Heapet, heaped 41 25 

Heapit, heaped 54 11 2 

Hearin', hearing 149 14 

Hearse, hoarse 9 31 

Hear't, //far zV 76 13 

Heartie, dim. oi heart .... 50 34 2 

Hech, an exclamation ofivonder 4 43 

Hechl, foretold 47 n 

offered 182 21 

Hechtin', tnaking to pant . . . 177 4 2 
Heckle, a board, in which are 
fixed a number of sharp pins, 
■used in dressing hemp, flax, 

<5r=c loi 25 

Hee balou, a term used by tiurses 

, rohen lulling children . . 255 i 2 

Yicc\f,-o'ct-c.ov/dy, head over heels 121 13 2 

Heeze, to elevate, to hoist ... 65 24 

Heft, haft 93 46 

Hein shinn'd, iti-shintied . . . 207 12 2 

Hellim, the helm 221 2 2 

Hen-broo, hen-broth 276 2 2 

Hcrriet, harried 151 2 2 

Herrin, herring 23 34 

Hcrrj-ment, plundering, devasta- 
tion 27 39 

Hersel, herself 23 21 

Hct, hot. Gie him't het, give him 

it hot 12 9 

Heiigh, a coal pit 31 ^5 

a steep 263 11 2 

'WcuV, a reaping-hook .... 248 16 

Hich, high 254 26 2 

Hidin', hiding 71 21 2 

Hie, high 200 30 2 

Hilch, to hobble 58 41 2 

Hilchin, halting 46 27 2 

Hill-tap, hill-top 344 I 



Page line col. 

H'Atis skihie, helter skelter . . 103 11 2 

Hinisel, himself 2 17 

Hiney, honey 202 11 

Hing, to hang 29 21 2 

Hingin', hanging 110 52 

Hinging, han^^ing 239 2 t 

Hirple'i, walks with di^culty. . 264 9 

Hirplin, limping 14 7 

Hissels, hissel, so many cattle as 

one person can attend ... 80 32 

Histie, dry, barren 69 23 

Hitch, a loop or knot 32 31 

\i\zz\iti, young women .... 33 

Hoast, a cough 9 9 

Hoble, to hobble 53 12 

Hoddin, the motioti of a tnan on 

horseback 15 20 

Hoggie, a youjig sheep after it is 

smeared and btfore it is shorn 269 25 
Hog-score, a kind cf distance-line 

drawn across the rink . . 42 21 2 
Hog-shouther, a kind cf horse- 
play by justling with the 

shoulder 79 26 2 

Hol't, holed, perforated .... 50 34 2 

Y{ooAie-cr3.\\, the hooded cro-w . 122 10 2 

Hoodock, tniserly 148 30 2 

^oo\, the ontc}' skin or case . . 47 10 2 

Hoolie! stop.' 34 42 

Hoord, hoard 31 31 2 

Hoordet, hoarded 45 19 

Horn, a spoon made of horti , . 72 19 

a comb made of horn .... 74 26 

Hornie, Satan 16 23 

Host, a cough 157 12 2 

Woil\x\,co7ighing 35 5 

Woic\i'A,fidgetted 94 40 

Houghmagandie,yor«/ifrt^/(7« . . 19 26 

Houlets, owls 84 31 

Housie, dim. of /:^7<if 54 37 

Hov'd, swelled 23 20 

Howdie, a midwife 8 11 

Howe, holicnvly 20 37 

a holloiu or dell 33 21 2 

Howe-backit, sunk in the back . 53 3 

Howes, holloavs 147 33 

How kit, digged 2 4 

dug up 31 18 2 

\{.o\i\e:X.-{&c^A, faced like att owl . 176 25 

Hoyse, hoist 30 16 2 

Hoy't, urged 47 lo 

Hoyte, to amble crazily ... 53 12 

Hughoc, Hugh 32 34 

Hiinder, a hutidred 94 8 

Hunkers, hams 51 33 

Huntit, hunted 230 22 2 

Hnrcheon, a hedgehog .... 83 20 

Hurchin, an urchin 51 28 2 

Hurdies, hips i 36 

Hurl, tcfall dow7i ruinously . . 26 37 

to ride 159 42 

Hushion, a cushion 207 22 

Hyte, mad 149 10 

\Q.YJK^, an ear of corn .... 54 33 

ler'oe, a great-grandchild . . 73 40 ' 



6i8 



GLOSSARY. 



Page line col. 

Ilk, eac/i 38 5 

Ilka, eziery i 32 

lU-willie, ill-natured 71 38 2 

Indentin, indetituring .... 4 20 

Ingine, genius, i}ige}iiiity ... 76 16 

Ingle-cheek, thefireside ... 38 13 

Ingle-lowe, the hoiiseJwld fire . 38 3 2 

In's, in his 25 46 

In't, in it 231 41 

I'se, / shall or ■will 7837 

Isna, is not 121 i 2 

Ither, other 2 i 

Itsel, itself 137 9 2 

JAD, a jade 29 40 

l^As,, jades S 48 

Janwar, January 236 27 

jauk, to dally, to trifle .... 62 31 

Jaukin, trifling, dallying ... 45 29 2 

}z.\initx , foolish talk 254 30 2 

Jauntie, dim. ai jaunt .... 108 11 

Jaups, splashes 26 38 

Jaw, to pour 221 6 2 

Jillet, a jilt 71 15 2 

imp, to jump 58 41 2 

sle7tder 200 14 

Vimps, a kind of easy stays . . 246 11 2 

Jimpy, neatly 2ii 31 2 

Jink, to dodge 6 24 

Tinker, that turns quickly ... 53 32 

\\vi\^e.x?,, gay , sprightly girls . . 149 8 

Jinkin, dodging 32 19 2 

Jirkinet, an outer jacket or jerkin 

•worn by women 246 11 2 

iirt, a jerk 78 i 
o, sweetheart, a term expressing 
afl'ection and some degree of 

familiarity 164 4 2 

\ohom' , jobbing i65 24 

Joctelegs, clasp-kniz>es .... 45 6 

Joes, lovers 114 4 

Johnny Ged's Hole, the grave- 
digger 22 31 

]o\iia, joking 75 35 2 

Joium, the jug 208 21 2 

Jouk, to duck 35 33 2 

io 7nake obeisance 270 21 

Jew, to swing and sound ... 19 11 

himpit, jumped 43 9 

Jundie, tojustle 79 26 2 

KAES, daws 12 39 

Kail, broth 12 38 

Kail-blade, the leaf of the colewort 22 9 

Kail-runt, the stem if the colewort 21 46 

Y^Mn, farm produce paid as rent 2 16 

Kebars, rafters 49 i 

Kebbuck, a cheese 18 39 

Kebbuck-heel, the re maining por- 
tion of a cheese 19 7 

Keckle, to cackle, to laugh . . loi 23 

Keekin'-glass, a looking-glass . . 176 27 

T^eek'n, peeped 236 22 

Keeks, peeps 2 22 

Keepit, kept 18 

Kelpies, water-spirits .... 25 38 



Ken, know 4 

Kend, known 31 

Kenn'd, known 19 

Kennin, a little bit 42 

Kent, knew 3 

Kep, to catch anythi/ig when 

falling 84 

Ket, a fleece 33 

Kiaugh anxiety 62 

Kickin', kicking 122 

Kilbagie, the name of a certain 

kind of whisky 51 

Killie, Kilmar7iock 43 

Kilt, to tuck 7ip II 

Kimnier, a girl 78 

Kin', kind 33 

King's-hood, a part of the entrails 

of an ox 21 

Kintra, coutiiry 124 

Kintra cooser, a country stallion. 1 1 1 

Kirn, a churn 31 

Kirns, harvest-homes .... 3 

Kirsen, to christe7i 77 

Kissin', kissing 276 

Kist, a shop counter 78 

Kitchen, atiyihing thai eats with 

bread to serve for soup or 

gravy 163 

Kitchens, seasons, makes palatable 7 

Kittle, to tickle 17 

ticklish 27 

Kittlin, a kitten 47 

Kiutlin, cuddling 45 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of 

rock 53 

Knappin-hammers, hammers for 

breaki>ig stones 76 

Knowe, a hillock 2 

Knurl, a churl 182 

Knurlin, a dwarf 114 

Kye, co'ws 6 

K.y\e, a district of Ayrshire . . 71 

Kytes, bellies 72 

Kythe, discover 44 

LADDIE, a lad 49 

Lade, a load 90 

Laggen, the angle betiueen the side 

and bottom of a wooden dish . 37 

Laigh, lo7u 29 

Laik, lack 199 

Lair, lore 17 

Lairing, ivading and sinking in 

snow or mud 55 

Laith, loth 54 

Laithfu', bashful 63 

Lallan, lowland 32 

Lambie, dim. of /rtw^ 14 

Lampit, limpet 10 

Lan', land, estate 2 

Lane, alone 42 

Lanely, lonely 31 

Lang, long i 

Langer, longer 16 

Lap, did leap i 

Laughin, laughing 21 



Page line col. 

Lave, tAe rest 41 25 2 

Lav'rocks, larks 14 8 

Lawin, shot, reckoniiig, bill . . 201 33 

Lawlan', lowland 5° 38 

Lazie, lazy 148 39 

Lea'e, leave 33 12 2 

Leal, true 44 42 

'L.C2i-r'\g, a grassy ri'd^e . . . . 179 15 

Lear, lore, learning 7 13 

Lee, the lea 84 i 

Lee-lang, live-long 38 8 

Ijeesome, /leasant 204 5 2 

Leeze me, a phrase 0/ congratula- 
tory endear inent, lam happy 

in thee, or proud 0/ thee . . 203 17 2 
Leister, a three-barbed i7istrumetit 

for sticking Jish 20 23 

Len', lend 201 34 

Leugh, laughed 29 36 

Leuk, look, appearattce .... 18 5 

Ley crap, lea crop 277 29 

Libbet, gelded no 6 2 

Licket, beating 103 27 

Lickit, licked with desire , . . 164 40 
Licks, a beating. Gat his licks, 

got a beating 80 32 

hie'm, telling lies 127 30 

Lien, lain 164 i 

Lift, heaven 55 4 

a large quantity 78 26 

Lightly, to undervalue, to slight . 185 38 

Liken, to compare 28 3 

Lilt, sing 29 26 

Limbies, dim. oi limbs .... 108 35 

Limmer, a kept tnistress ... 58 

a strumpet 78 9 

Limpit, limped 43 7 

Lin, a •waterfall 83 27 5 

Linket, tripped deftly 94 6 

I inkin, tripping 32 17 ; 

Linn, a waterfall 47 28 

\An\.,flax. Sin lint was i' the bell, 

since fajc was inflower . . 63 34 

"Linties, linnets 147 34 

Lippened, trusted 108 19 

Lippie, dim. of lip 206 25 

Loan, milking place 6 12 

lane 194 25 

Lo'ed, loved 92 i 

Lon'on, London 3 4° 

Loof, palm of the ha7id .... 3832 

Loosome, lo7>esome 133 10 : 

Loot, did let 47 16 

luOove?., palms 73 3^ 

l^osh, a petty oath 165 25 

Lough, a lake 31 4 : 

Louns, ragamuffins 80 25 

Loup, to leap 150 8 

Lovin', lovi)ig 14' 3 

Lov/, flame 268 10 

\Ay^?iXi, flaming 52 ?7 

Lowin, blazing . 18 20 

Lowpin leaping 180 11 

Lowping, leaping 94 15 

Lows'd, loosed 32 7 

Lowse, to loosen 52 i 



Luckie, a designation applied to 

an elderly zuoman .... 254 

Lug, the ear 28 

to produce, to britig out ... 99 
Lugget, eared. Lugget caup, 

eared cup • 7 

Luggies, small ruoodcn dishes with 

handles 47 

Luke, look 104 

Lum, the chimney 45 

Lunardie, a bonnet called after 

Luuardi the aeronaut . . 74 

\MVtX., a column of smoke ... 46 

Lunlin, smoking 4 

Luve, love 202 

Luvers, lovers 204 

Lyart, grey 14 

Lynin, lining 256 



MAE, more 

Mair, more 

Maist, almost 

that nearly 

Maistly, mostly 

Mak, make 

Makin, maki7ig 

Mailie, Molly 

Mailins,^^?-?^^ 

Mang, among 

Manse, a parsotiage house . . • 

Manteels, viajitles 

Mark, mayks 

Mar's year, 1715, the year of 

Mar's rebellion 

Mashlum, mixed corn .... 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot 

Maukin, a hare 

Maun, must 

Maunna, must fiot 

Maut, malt 

Mavis, the thrush 

Mawin, mowing 

Mawn, a basket 



Pa^e line col. 



moiun 

M.3.yh&, perhaps 

Meere, a tnare 

Meikle, as much 

Melder, cor^i or grain of any kitid 
sent to the mill to be ground 

Mell, to meddle 

MeWie, to soil with mud . . . 

Men', mend 

Mense, good manners 

Mess John, the clergyman . . . 
Messin, a dog of mixed breeds . 
Midden, the dunghill .... 
Midden-creels, dunghill baskets . 
Midden-hole, the dutighill . . . 

Midge, a gnat 

Mim, prim 

M'\m-mou^A, prim-mouthed . . 
Min, rememiratice . . . . . 

Mhi', mind 

Minds me, remembers tne . . . 

Mind't-na, cared not 

Minnie, mother 



22 30 

23 12 

2 45 
32 24 

3 2 
3 34 

18 6 

32 29 

141 6 

16 24 

17 23 
14 14 



47 2° 

12 14 

221 5 

38 3 

2 46 

179 31 

200 17 

85 23 

20 31 

264 8 

204 13 

4 27 

53 20 



91 23 

8 35 

19 4 

32 22 

26 9 

164 39 

1 18 

137 30 

207 23 



47 
272 



17 15 
157 2 



20b 7 
49 37 
53 26 



620 



GLOSSARY. 



Page line c« 

Mirk, dari i8i 9 

Misca'd, abused 29 19 

Misguidin', misguiding .... 71 23 
Mishanter, misfortjtne, disaster, 

calamity 140 19 

Miska't, abused 128 23 

Mislcar'd, 7iiischievous .... 21 2 

Mist, tnissed . 47 12 

Misteuk, mistook 50 7 

Mither, mother 13 37 

Mixtic-.-naxtie, confusedly mixed. 12 23 

WxzzX A, having different colours 137 15 

Moistify, to make moist .... '3 38 

Mony, matiy 3 12 

Mools, the earth of graves . . , loi 3 

Moop, to nibble 33 9 

to keep company ivith .... 247 24 

Moorlaa', moorlatid 79 38 

Moss, a tnorass 32 i 

Mou, mouth 45 16 

Moudieworts, moles 2 4 

Mousie, dim. of mouse .... 54 31 

Movin', moving 170 15 

^lucVXe, great, big 10 11 

much 27 43 

Musie, dim. of OTZ/ii" 7S 40 

Muslin-kail, broth composed simply 
of luater, shelled barley, and 

greens 35 =7 

Mutchkin, an English pint . . 10 26 

Mysel, myself 23 41 

NA', not 5 14 

no 42 21 

Nae, no i i5 

Nacbody, nobody 79 24 

Naething, nothing 20 34 

Naig, a nag -j^ lii 

Naigies, dim. o( nags 184 16 

Nanc, none i 10 

Nappy, ale 3 33 

Natch, grip, hold. To natch, io 

lay hold of violently . . . 165 31 

Near't, near it 76 17 

Neebors, neiglibojtrs 813 

Needna, 7ieed not 22 38 

Negleckil, neglected 11 1 6 

Ncist, tiext 180 23 

Neuk, nook, corner 18 7 

New-ca'd, newly driven ... 77 18 

Nick, to break, to sever suddenly 21 12 

^\c\.2i.Ti, cutting 125 40 

Nicket, cut off 96 3 

caught, cut off 120 2 

Nick-nackets, curiosities. ... 96 7 

Nicks, knocks, blows 80 2 

Auld crummie's nicks, marks 07t 

the horn of a cow .... 132 29 

Niest, next 5 44 

Nieve-fu', afisifull 78 20 

Nieves,y?j/j 23 8 

Niffer, exchange 41 20 

Niger, a 7iegro 29 37 

Nits, 7tuts 44 16 

Nocht, 7sothing 90 7 

Norland, Northland 11 23 



Page line cdI. 

Notet, noted 104 35 2 

Nowte, cattle 4 34 

O',of . . I I 

0'e'[\3.y, a7toutsidedress,a}to7)erall 268 2 2 
O'erword, any tcr77i freque7itly re- 
peated, a refrain .... 153 11 2 

Ony, a7iy 6 6 

Orra, super7iu7nerary .... 4S 10 

O't, of it 3 24 

O'ls, of it is 165 26 

Ought, aught, anything .... 232 i 

Oughllins, atiythijig in the least . in 12 

Ourie, shivering 55 '4 

Oursel, ourselves 19 38 

Out-cast, a quarrel 126 35 

Outler, 1171-housed 47 82 

Owre, over i 36 

too 4 II 

Owrehip, awayoffetchinga bloiu 
with the /ta}7!77ier over the 

ar/n 8 3 

Ovvsen, oxen 179 11 

PACK, pack an' thick, 07ifrie7idly 

or i7iti7nate ter>7is .... 22 

Packs, twelve sto/ies 32 38 2 

Paidle, to paddle 104 26 2 

Paidles, -jja7tders about ivithout 

object or motive 249 13 2 

Vs^'XW, paddled 226 38 

Y'a\nch, pau>ich. sto>7iach ... 2 33 

VdMrickf , partridges 42 29 2 

Pangs, crams 17 40 

Parishcn, the parish 256 20 2 

Parritjh, oatmeal boiled i7i water, 

Uirabout 7 23 

Parritch-pats, porridge-pots . . 96 11 

Pat,/«/ 20 20 

a pot 45 30 a 

VsmXc, a plough-staff 54 24 

Paughty, haughty 37 10 a 

Paiikie, ct47t/iing, sly 34 i 

V^y'\.,paid 53 17 2 

Pechan, the stomach 2 26 

Pechin,/«H//«^ 157 16 

Peel, a tower 248 13 i 

Ye.eX\n, peeling 30 62 

Penny wheep, i«?i7// 1}<'<'>- ... 17 41 

Petticoatie, dim. o{ petticoat . . 254 3 

Pen\e, a plough-staff 104 7 

T?hrais,in,ffattering 78 41 

Pickle, a S7nall qua7itity ... 46 37 a 

Pii,/«^ 2 33 

Pits, Z?^ A 43 II 2 

VX'Az^A?,, public procla77iatio7ts . . 222 11 
Plack, ati old Scotch cui/t, the 

third pari of a Scotch pe/iny, 

tweh'e of which make a« 

E7tglish pe7i7iy 8 12 2 

Pladie, dim. oi plaid 210 27 

'S?\MA&n, plaidiiig 248 19 

Plaister, to plaister 36 29 a 

Platie, dim. o{ plate 6 i 

Pleugh, plough 5 27 

Pliskie, a trick 11 38 



GLOSSARY. 



621 



Page line CO'.. 

PlivcT, a ^/oTer- 51 2y 

P\i:mpit, //uni/'cd 47 13 

Poeks, waileis 52 35 

Poind, to seize/or sequestration . 3 16 

Poind't,/o/«rff(/ 151 2 2 

Poortlth, poverty 3 22 

Posic, a bouquet 205 10 

Poll, to pull 44 16 

Pouchic, dim. oi pouch .... 103 9 2 

Pouk, to pluck 21 28 

Poupit, the pulpit 137 31 

Pousc, a push 165 18 2 

Poussie, a hare 75 35 

Pou't, pulled 44 16 2 

VouX-S, poults, chicks 81 23 2 

Poulher'd, powdered 157 2 2 

Vonihcry, po-wdery 57 6 

Pow, the head, the skull ... 78 4 

Vo\vn\e, a pony, a svtall horse . 76 27 

Powther, po7uder 1314 

Praise be blest, an expression 0/ 

thankfulness . .... 265 21 2 

Vr's.ym, praying 73 22 2 

Pree, to taste 200 18 2 

Preen, a pin 80 i 

Preut, print 34 22 

Pridelu', pridefut 45 52 

Prie'd, tasted 45 16 2 

Prief, proof 34 5 

Priestic, dim. of priest .... 157 2 2 

Priggin, haggling 28 9 

Pnmf.ic, denture, precise ... 45 22 

Propone, to propose 41 26 

Proveses, provosts 27 20 

Pu', to pull 205 10 

Vu'd, pulled 206 17 

Puddm', a pudding 72 2 

Puddock-stoois, mushrooms . . 122 21 

Fund, pounds 54 17 

Piirsie, dim. ofpurse 5° 3i 

Pyet, the magpie 141 29 2 

Pyke, to pick 51 14 

Pyles, grains 41 24 

OUAICK, quack 31 92 

Quat, quit 36 72 

quitted 96 4 

Qnaukin, quaking 45 31 2 

Qney , rt cow from one year to two 

years old 47 82 

Quo', quoth 165 5 

RAD, afraid 164 8 

Rade, rode 239 19 

Rncweed, the plant ragioort . . 31 14 2 

Raibles, mttles, nonsense ... 17 20 

Rair, to roar 84 24 

Wad ra'n'l, would have roared. 53 3s 2 

Rairin, roaring 18 11 

Raise, rose 222 27 

'Rmzc, to madden, to infiame . . 53 n 

RamSlin. rambling 5 5 

P.^.m^cciVd, fatigued 77 3° 

Ram!;un.shoi:k, rugged .... 255 23 

'P.:m\~\.3.m. forward 36 9 

Randie, quarrelsome .... 48 8 



Page I 
Randy, a term of opprobrium 

generally applied to a woman 255 

Ranklin', rankling 151 

Ranting, noisy, full of animal 

spirits I 

"Ranis, Jollifications 7 

Rape, a rope 30 

Raploch, coarse 103 

Rash, a rush 72 

Rash-buss, a bush of rushes . . 31 

Rattan, a rat 121 

Rattens, rats 38 

P.aM<:\&, fear less 12 

Raught, reached 46 

Raw, a row 15 

Rax, to stretch 29 

XKa'x.'d, stretched out, exte7ided . 11 1 

Raxin, stretching 128 

Ream, cream 4 

P.eh\i\.e, a rebut,a disco>nfiture . 262 

Red, counsel 20 

Red-wud, stark mad 11 

Reekin, smoking 7 

Reekit, smoked 94 

smoky . 32 

Reeks, smokes 4 

Reestit, withered, singed ... 32 

stood restive 54 

Reflec', reflect 137 

Reif randies, sturdy beggars . . 208 

Remead, remedy 12 

Remuve, re:nove 205 

Respeckit, respected 126 

Restricked, restricted .... 70 

Rein, to take pily 204 

Rickles, stocks of grain .... 126 

Rig, a ridge 54 

Rigpiii, rafters 38 

Rig«ooddie, ivithered, sapless . 94 

Rin, run 11 

Rink, the course of the stones, a 

tertn in citrling 42 

Rinnin, running 46 

Ripp, a handfulcftin thrashed corn 53 
Ripple, weakness in the back and 

reins 14^ 

Ripplin-kame, a flax-comb ... 255 

Ripps, handfuls 33 

Riskit, made a fioise like the tear- 
ing of roots 53 

Rive, to burst 72 

\>.\\ei,, tears to pieces .... 4 

Rivcs't, tears it 81 

Roastin', roasting 141 

Rock, a distafl ....... 203 

Rockin, a social gathering, the 
women spinning on the rock 

or distafl 75 

Roon, roufid 80 

Rooi'd, praised 233 

Roose. to praise 72 

Roosty, rusty 5' 

Roun', round 62 

Ronpet, hoarse as with a cold . 9 

Routhie, welt filled, abunda~it . 204 

Rowes, rolls 26 



622 



GLOSSAJi^V. 



Page tine col. 

Rowin, rolling 227 35 

Row't, rolled ... .... 71 23 

"Rowxe, to lo7i>, lo bellow .... 29 12 

Rowlh, abundance 9 21 

Rowtiii, lowing 612 

Rozet, rosin 74 14 2 

Ruefu', rueful 171 9 2 

Rung, a cudgel 12 26 

Runkl'd, wrinkled 15 7 

l^\va\s, the stems 0/ cabbage . . 29 16 

Ryke, reach 51 i 



SABS, sobs 

S.ie, so 

Saft, so/t 

Sair, sore 

/() serz'e 

Sairly, sorely 

Sair"t, served 

Sang, song 

Sannock, Alexander 

Sark, a shirt 

Sarkil, provided in shirts . . . 
Sauce, scorn, insolence .... 

Saugh, the willoiv 

Saugh woodies, ropes made cf 

vjillow withes 

Saul, soul 

Saunt, saints 

Saut, salt 

Saut backets, salt buckets . . . 

Sautet, salted 

Saw, to S07U 

Sawin, sowing 

Sawmont, a salmon 

Sax, si.r 



50 


35 


3 


21 


19 


22 


2 


43 


132 


32 


2n 


34 



Saxpence, sixpence 
Say't, say it . . . 
Scaith, hurt . . . 
Scaur, to sea re . . 
Sc^ur, frightened . 
Scaud, to scald . 
Scawl, a scold . . 
Scho, she 



SchooVin', schooling, teaching . . 

Scones, barley cakes 

Sconner, to loathe 

loathing 

Scraichin, screaming .... 

Scrapin', scraping 

Screed, a tear, a rent .... 

to repeat glibly 

Scriech'n, screeching 

Scrievin, gliding easily .... 

Scrimpit, scanty 

Scnmply, scant ly 

Scroggie, coz'ered with stunted 

shrubs 

Sculdudd'ry, rt ludicrous term de- 

noting fornication .... 

See't, see it ... ^ ... . 

Seizin, seizing 

9<tt\,self 

Seirt, sold 

Sen', send 

Sen't, send it 



11 

38 


3 
29 


III 


23 


53 


24 


loS 


5 


4 


20 


7 


27 


33 
96 

11 


24 
II 
36 
39 


20 


32 


42 


23 


21 


17 


142 

236 


12 
7 


239 


29 


21 


20 


31 
31 


18 
6 


236 


7 

14 


170 


27 


7 

35 


2 

18 


72 


4 


75 


34 


132 


29 


14 


3b 


104 


5 


9 


35 


7 


II 


34 
38 


14 
26 



269 32 

271 34 
45 36 



76 

54 
142 



Pag» line cot. 

Servan', serz'ant 35 37 

Set, /()/ 16 7 

Sets, becomes 8 34 

sets off, starts 23 15 

Settlin, gat a fearfu' settlin, xuas 

frightened into quietness . . 47 22 

Shaclil't, deformed 195 3 

Sliaird, a shred 80 33 a 

Sha'na, shall not 239 34 

Shangan, a cleft stick .... 29 18 

S]r.\n\i, the leg and foot .... 53 15 

Sh.inks, legs 267 27 

Shanna, shall not 151 20 3 

Sliarin't, sharing it 240 20 

Shaul, shallow 127 32 

Shaver, a wag 37 43 

Shavic, a trick 51 29 a 

Shaw, show 34 62 

Shaw'd, showed 93 32 

Shaws, 7fOoded dells 47 21 

Sheep-shank, wha thinks himsel 
n.-ie sheep-shank bane, who 
thinks himself no unimpor- 
tant personage 78 21 

Sheers, shears 33 16 

scissors 62 25 

Sherra-moor, Sheriff-muir . . 46 19 

Sheugh, a trench i 3° 

Sheuk, shook 49 i 

Shiel, a shieling, a hut .... 204 3 

Shill, shrill 223 5 

Shillin's, shillings 255 22 3 

Shog, a shock 32 25 

Shools, jZ/OTv/j 76 II 3 

Shoon, jf/;(vj 34 9 

Shor'd, threatened 28 11 

offered 5^ 35 ' 

S^hort, to threaten 132 2i 3 

ShowXAnti, should not 177 11 

Shouthcr, j//i';(/(/fr- '3 13 

Shure, did shear, did cut griiin . 248 14 

Sic, such 3 4 

Sicker, secure 20 16 

Siclike, suchlike 2 38 

Sidelins, sidelong 78 39 

Sighin', sighing 128 20 

Siller, money 91 24 

of the colour of silver . . . . 205 23 

Simmer, summer 14 i 

Simmers, summers 5 '8 

Sin', since 21 18 

Sindry, sundry 274 2 2 

Sinfu", sinful 72 32 

Singet, singed lOO i 

Singin', singing 110 6 2 

Sing't, sing it 57 25 2 

Sinn, the sun 126 20 2 

Sinny, sunny 204 30 

Sinsyne, since 183 27 

Skaith, injury 20 41 

Skaithing, injuring 81 19 

Skeigh, high-mettled .... 53 72 

shy .proud, disdainful . . . 180 2 a 

Skellum, a worthless fello^v . . 91 19 

Skelp, a slap 72 30 a 

to run ......... 157 15 a 



GLOSSARY. 



623 



Page line col. 
Skelpie-limmer, a technical term 

in/eiitale scolding .... 46 10 

Skelpin, tualhing smartly ... 14 13 

resounding 48 82 

Skelping, slapping loi 5 

Skelpit, hurried 92 39 

?)V\nV\\n, glittering 114 21 

Skirl, iositriek 29 28 

Skirl'd, shrieked 45 15 

Skirlin, shrieking 8 7 

Sklent, to deTiate/rom truth . . 78 14 

Sklented, slanted 32 12 

Sklenlin, slanting 31 22 

Skoulh, range, scope 129 21 

!r>krecch, to scream 95 2 

Skticigh, to scream 53 92 

Skyrin, anything that strongly 

takes the eye, shoivy, gaudy . 230 5 2 

?>\iy\e, a sharp obligue stroke . 48 4 

Sl.ide, .t//V/ 23 II 

Si;ie, the sloe 85 30 

Slaps, ^rtj/ifj 3 45 

gates, styles, breaches lit hedges 19 14 

Slaw, slow 221 10 2 

Slee, shy 53 27 

Sleeest, slyest 34 i 

Sleekit, sleek 54 19 

Slidd'ry, slippery 225 2 2 

SU)keii, to ///tench, to allay thi\ jt in 26 

S\ypct, slipped, yell over ... 53 36 2 

Sma', small 19 3 

Smi:ddum, dust, powder ... 74 15 2 

Smcck, smoke 38 15 

Smiddy, a smithy 1 '9 

Smoor'd, smothered 24 33 

Stnoutie, smutty 32 27 

Smytrie, a number huddled to- 
gether 2 40 

Snap, .5/«<t>-/ 114 24 2 

Snapper, to stumble igo 19 

Snash, abuse, impertinence . . 3 '4 

Snaw broo, melted snow ... 26 32 

Snawie, snowy 69 26 

Snawy, snowy 3' 3' 2 

Sntd, to lop, to cut 108 52 

Snell, bitter, biting 54 42 

Snellest, sharpest, keenest . . • 191 17 2 

Snecshin-mill, a sni'ff-box ... 45 

HmcM, the latchet (y a door . . 32 19 

Snirtle, to laugh slyly .... 51 38 

Snool, to cringe, to submit tamely 173 23 

to snub 203 5 

Snoov'd, sneaked 166 26 

^noov'x, went smoothly .... 54 12 

Snowkit, snuffed 2 3 

Sodger, a soldier 48 62 

Sodgerin', soldiering 271 36 

Sr>ger, a soldier 237 6 

S<'nsic,yV'/i'^, comely i 31 

Soom, to swim 10 15 

Soor, sour 127 3 

Sootie, sooty 31 3 

.Sough, a heatiy sigh 230 27 

Souk, a suck 268 II 

Soupe, rt spoonful, a small quan- 
tity 0/ anything liquid . . 63 28 



Pagt line col, 

Souple, supple 7 2 

Souter, a shoemaker 9' 41 

Sowps, spoonfuls 12 38 

Sowler, a shoemaker 173 9 

Sowtli, to try over a tune with a 

low -uihistle 57 23 S 

Sowther, to solder, to make up . 5 42 

.Spae, toprophesy 46 13 

Spails, chips of wood 151 4 2 

ii\>a\i^i:'i, dashes or scatters about 31 5 

Spairin, sparing 18 13 

Spak, spake 14 32 

Spate, a flood 26 33 

Spavie, a disease 5' 33 2 

Spav Id, having the spavin . . 58 39 2 

Spean, to wean 94 14 

-Spcel, to climb 78 32 2 

Specl'd, climbed 35 2 

.Speer, to inquire 244 6 2 

':^\i^v\^&, the country parlour . . 33 45 

S'p\cr, to ask, to inquire .... 8 24 

.Spier'd, inquired 195 i 

Spier't, inquired 76 14 

Spinnin, spinning 203 17 2 

Spleuchan, a tobacco-pouch ... 21 24 

Splore, afroltC 48 9 

'^\>x?icV\K.A, clatnbered .... in 19 

Sprattle, to struggle 55 '7 

.Spring, a quick air in music, a 

Scottish reel 81 33 

^^pnliy , full of spirits .... 53 35 2 

Vtprwf.h, spruce 265 39 

Spunk, ^r^ 30 25 

mettle 51 24 2 

a spark 76 25 2 

9f{>\in\(.\<^, full of spirit .... 11 23 

whisky 151 29 2 

Spunkics, Wills o" the wisp . . 25 38 
.Spurtle, rt stick with which por- 
ridge, broth, &'c. are stirred 

while boiling 96 3 

Sqiiattle, to sprawl 74 26 

Squeel, /o jirrt'ow 31 12 

Stacher'd, staggered, walked un- 
steadily 20 3 

Stacher't, staggered 150 I2 

Stack, stuck 93 4^ 

Staggie, dim. o( stag 53 S 

Staig, a horse of one, two, or 
th ree yea rs old, not yet broken 
for riding, nor employed in 

work 266 13 

Stan', a stand 20 33 

Wad stan't, would have stood . i 21 

Stanes, stones 2 37 

Stang, to sting 52 21 

?i\.Sink, a pool or pond 52 9 

Stnp, to stop 20 39 

Stark, strong S3 24 

Starns, stars 83 16 

Siarnies, dim. oi starns .... 84 12 2 

Startin, starting 44 82 

Startles, runs hurriedly ... 4 35 

Starvin, startling 54 9 2 

Staukin, i/rt/^vV/ji,'- 201 23 2 

Staumrel, half-witted .... 27 38 



624 



GLOSSARY. 



Page ti 

Slaw, if) steni 39 

to »urjcit 72 

Stechin, cramming, f anting with 

repletion 2 

Steek, ^(? c/oj? 13 

SteeWs, stitches, reticulations . . 2 

Steer, to injure 5 

to stir jt/> iS 

Steer'd, molested 131 

Sleeve, yf?-w, compacted ... 53 

Stells, stills 9 

Slen, a leap or hound .... 201 

Hasly slens, hasty stretches or 

rushes 83 

Sten't, reared 54 

Stents, assessments, dues ... 2 

Slcyest, steepest 54 

Siibble, stubhle 54 

Slibble-rig, the reaper in harvest 

•who takes the lead .... 46 

a stubble-ridge 164 

Stick-an-stowe, totally, altogether 80 

Stilt, halt 58 

Slimpart, an eighth part of a 

Winchester bushel .... 54 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old 30 

Stockin, stocking 75 

Slockins, stockings 268 

Siockit, stocked 141 

Stocks, plants 0/ cabbage ... 33 

Sloiled, walked stupidly . . . 140 

Stoitered, staggered 49 

^taoT, sounding hollowly or hoarsely 31 

Stoppit, stopped 170 

Slot, an ox 30 

Stourc, dust 29 

dust blown on the wind . . . 199 

pressure of circumstances . . 237 

Stovvn, stolen 184 

Stownlins, by stealth 45 

Stowrie, dusty 268 

Stoyte, to stumble 190 

Strade, strode 251 

Str.ie, a f lir strae-death, a natural 

death 23 

Stnik, to stroke 12 

Stiaikit, stroked 81 

Strak, struck 23 

Strang, strong 83 

Strappan, strapping 62 

Strappin, strapping 182 

'&lx-A\\%\\K, straight 32 

Streamies, dim. of j/r^'rtw^ . . . 108 
Streekit, stretched. Streekit owre, 

stretched across 26 

Strewin, strewing 54 

Striddle. to straddle 78 

.Stringin. stringing 38 

Str un'i,//Mcrf I 

St iddic, a stithy 8 

Stu.Tipie, dim. of stump, a short 

qi'i'l' ■ • ■ • 77 

Strum, spirituous liquor of any 

kind 47 

to xvalk sturdily 74 

Stuff, corti 46 



Page lint coZ. 

Sturt, to molest, to vex .... 5 25 

Sturtin,y>-/i''/(<c</ 46 7 

Styme, see a .styme,i'<'f ?■« Mt" /?<M/ 161 6 2 

Sucker, sugar 1 T,^ 

Sud, should 7 38 

Sugli, rt rushing sound .... 25 29 

Sumphs, stupid fellows .... 125 13 2 

Suiic, soon 124 41 

Suppiii', supping . .... 276 2 2 

Siitliron, Southern, English. . . 79 36 

Swaird, sward 32 17 

Swall'd, swelled 7221 

Swank, stately 53 '4 

SvtM\k\es, strapping you>igfello7VS 15 21 

Swap, an exchange 77 8 

Swarf, to swoon 230 23 2 

Swat, did s~veat 35 26 

Swatch, sample 16 5 

specimen 23 25 

Swats, ale 9" 4° 

Swearin', swearing 149 13 

Sweatin, s-<uealing 80 20 

Swinge, to lash 151 6 2 

Swingein, whipping 30 20 

Swirl, a curve t 36 

Swith, J7y/'/? 29 n 

Swither, doubt 13 '5 

Swoor, sivore 45 7 » 

Sybow, a leek 133 5 2 

Syne, since , i 28 

then . 18 39 

TACK, possession . lease ... no 42 
Tackcts, a kind if nails for driv- 
ing into the heels tf shoes . 96 9 

Tae, toe 269 7 

Three-tae'd, three-toed. ... 20 23 

Taed, a toad 271 42 

Taen, taken 34 12 

Tairge. to task se7>crely .... 104 2 2 

Tak. to take 4 "9 

Tald, told 76 II 

Tane, the one 137 27 

Tangs, /(;«^j 121 14 

Tapmost, topmost 74 32 

Tapetlcss, heedless, fooliih. ... 77 30 

'\3\\\i\\\\c\\, a quart measui e . . 177 n 2 

Taps, fo/j 72 iS 2 

Tapsaltecrie, topsy-tur^iy . . . 223 14 2 

T:irra\v, to murmur 151 24 2 

Tarrow't, murmured .... 37 38 2 

Tarry-breeks, <r sailor .... 37 15 2 

'V:ii<,\c, a goblet 212 2 

Tauld, told 37 41 

Tawie, that allows itself peaceably 

to be handled 53 29 

Tawpies,yo(;//iA, thoughtless young • 

persons 122 19 

Tawted, matted, uncombed . . i 20 

Teats, small quantities .... 33 1° 

licen, pro'jocation, chagrin . . 98 23 

TellM, told 166 32 

Tellin', telling 132 30 

Temper pin, //;^ ivooden pin used 
for tempering or regulating 

the motionof a spinning-wheel 267 24 



GLOSSARY. 



625 



Page U 
Ten-hours' bite, a slight feed to 
the horsfs while in yoke in 

the forenoon 77 

Tent, to take heed 20 

mark 20 

Teiuie, heedful 45 

Tcntier, more careful .... 120 

Teiighly, toughly 25 

Teuk, took 4y 

Tliack an rape, clothes .... 2 

Th.ne, thcsi 22 

^\\Mrm,fiddlestrings .... 28 

Thankfu, ///«;;-{/«/ 58 

Thankit, thanked 26 

Thetkit, thatched, covered up, 

secured 126 

Thcgithcr, together 2 

Thcmscls, thctnselvcs .... 5 

Thick, pack anil xSwV, friendly . 2 

Thieveless, cold, dry, spited . . 26 

Thigger, begging 151 

Thir, these 94 

their 247 

ThirI'd, thrilled 76 

Thole, to suffer, to endure . . 3 

Thoii's, thou art 140 

Thowes, thaws 26 

Thowless, slack, lazy .... 77 

Thr:ina, 6usy • 

a cro^ud 15 

Thrapple, the throat 141 

Thrave, tiventyfour sheaves of 

corn, including two shocks . 54 

Thr3v., to sprain or t7uist ... 47 

t^ cross or contradict .... 221 

Thrawin, twisting 47 

Thravvn, twisted 42 

Thraws, throes • . 2'7 

Threap, to maintain by dint of 

assertion 80 

Thresh, to thrash 165 

Threshing, thrashing .... 29 

Thrfittecn, thirteett 54 

Thretty, thirty 255 

Tlirisslc, the thistle 10 

Tlirowlher, a' thrnwther, through- 
other, pell mcll '3 

Thuds, that makes a loud inter- 
mittent noise 39 

resounding blows 230 

Thiimmart, the weasel .... 127 

Thunipit thumfied 43 

Thysel', thyself 13° 

T\d:\n-<, tidings 190 

Till, unto M2 

T\\\\,toit " 

Tinimer, timber 5 

the tree boughs 7^ 

Timmer propt, timber propt . . 47 

1"me, to lose '3 

to go astray 245 

Tint, lost 2° 

Tint as win, lost as won .... 210 

Tinkler, a tinker i 

Tips, rams 33 

Tippence, tzuopence JS 



16 



Page Un« evl, 

Tirl, to strip 151 i 3 

Tirl'd, knocked 168 i 2 

Tirlin, unroofing 31 22 

'I'ither, the other i 

I'ittlin, whispering 15 

Vi^chcr, tiiarringe portion ... 53 
Tocher-band, dowry bond . . . 227 

Todlin, totteri)tg 20 

'Yatii,, foxes 33 

I'ooin, empty 10 

Toop, a ram 33 

Toun, a hamlet, a farm-house . 33 35 
Tout, the blast of a horn or 

trumpet 18 10 

Towzie, rough, shaggy .... i 33 

Tou7.\c, to ritmple 122 31 

'I'o'vc, to have 205 5 

Tow, a rope 53 26 

Towniond, a twelvemonth ... 63 34 
Tow/.\\f\%, rumpling, dishe7'elling 50 
Toy, a very old fashion of female 

head-dress 74 

Toyte, to totter 54 '4 

Transmugrify'd, metamorphosed . 42 3 

Trashtrie, trash 2 27 

Trcadin', treading 137 29 

Trews, trousers 230 5 

Trickic, tricksy 53 27 

Trig, spruce, neat 44 5 

Trinkling, trickling 261 31 

Troggin, wares sold by wandering 

merchants 27' ' 

UtoVc, to exchange, to deal with 151 35 
Trottin, trotting .... 
Trouse, trousers .... 

Trow't, believed 

'Yrowlh, a petty oath 

Try't, have tried 

Tulzie, a quarrel 

'I'lincfii', tuneful 

Tup, a ram 

Twa, two 

Twa fauld, twofold, doubled up . 
Twa-lhrcc, two or three . . ■ 

I'wal, twelve o'clock 

Twalpcnnie worth, twclvepenny 

worth 

Twalt, the twelfth 

Twang, twinge 

Twuied, reft 

Twins, bereaves, takes away from 

Twislle, a twist 

Tyke, a vagrant dog . . . 

Tyne, to lose 

Tysday 'teen, Tuesday evening 



19 3 



53 26 

251 19 

255 19 

26 43 

53 21 

80 40 

140 S 

175 M 

I 5 

264 9 

IS 39 

23 39 



3 
no 

lOI 



33 



27 
126 29 



220 14 



164 



UNCHANCY, dangerous ... 151 31 

Unco, very 3 34 

great, extreme 1,° V- 

strange • 47 20 

Uncos, strange things, news of 

the country side 62 22 

Unkend, unknown 79 '5 

Unkenn'd, unknown 79 32 

Unsicker, unsecure 121 15 

Unskaith'd, unhurt 43 25 



626 



GLOSSARY. 



P'tgt line col. 

Upo', ?//(>« 3 46 

Upon't, «/<)« t'i 246 9 2 

VAP'RIN, vapouring .... 46 6 

Vauntie,/ro7<rf, in Jiigh sfiirits . 94 28 

Vera, very 514 

Viewin, vieiving 80 16 

Viils, rings round a column . . 25 47 

Vittel, 7'iiriun/, grain .... 126 9 2 

Vittle, victual 248 27 

\<^g,\e,prouil, ■well-pleased . . 269 28 
Vow, ail interjection expressive 0/ 

admiration or surprise . . 269 28 

WA', a wall 38 22 

Wa' flower, i/te -.vall/lo'ii'er . . 209 26 2 

Wab, a iveb 248 19 

Wabster, a weaver i5 43 

Wad, mould i '7 

a wager 23 35 

to wed 268 19 

V^aATihticn., ivfluld have had . . 212 38 

Wndna, ■jvfluld not 45 29 

Wadset, a mortgage 271 29 

Wae, sorrowful 312 

Wae days, woful days .... 253 21 

Waefu', woful 201 i 

Waes me, ivoc^s me 22 31 

Waesucks! alas! 19 1 

Wae worth, uhh- befall .... 8 25 
Waft, the cross thread that goes 
from the shuttle through the 

web 77 35 2 

Waifs, stray sheep 126 29 

Wair't, spend it 57 32 

Wal'd, chose 29 35 2 

Wale, choice. Pick and wale, of 

choicest quality 29 16 a 

Walic, ample, large 72 15 2 

Wallop in a tow, to hang one's self 268 20 

Waly, ample 236 31 

Wame, the belly 7 7 

Wamefoii, bellyful 72 36 

Wan, did win 108 15 2 

earned 265 20 

Wanchancie, unlucky .... 33 34 2 

Wanrestfu', restless 33 12 

War'd, spent, bestmved .... 141 6 

Ware, to spend 108 23 

worn 125 25 

Wark, loork 5 '9 

Wark-liime, a tool to nwrk with . 31 27 2 
Warks, 7vorks, in the sense of 

buildins;s, manufactures, &rc. 168 i 

Warld, world 28 3 

Warlock, a wizard 34 3 

Warly, ivorldly 77 16 

Warran, «'rtr/-rt«/ 11 17 

Warsle, to wrestle 137 4 

Warst, worst 5 31 

Warsti'd, wrestled 25 42 

Wasna, luas not 20 2 

Wast, west 99 '5 

'Wnstrie, prodigality, riot ... 2 28 

Wat, wet 46 23 

■wot, knov) 164 I 2 



Page line c 

Wat na, loot not 165 6 

Waterbrose, brose made of meal 

and water simply .... 35 27 

Wattle, a ivatid 53 23 

Wauble, to swing, to reel ... 53 5 

\i AwVcmwg,, awakening . ... 211 8 

Waukens, tvakens 17 39 

Waiikit, thickened with toil . . 38 22 

Waukrife, wakeful 84 36 

Wauks, awakes 226 4 

Waiir, to fight, to defeat ... 21 22 

worse 100 6 

Waur't, ivorsted 53 20 

Weans, children 2 40 

Weanies, dim. of weans .... 87 

Weason, the lueasand .... 8 21 

Wee, little 2 29 

A wce^, a short period of time . 31 7 

A wee a-back, a small space 

behind 14 16 

Weel, well 5 30 

Weel-gaim, ivell-going .... 41 23 

Weel-kent, •well-knoivn .... 177 9 

Weet, wet 821 

deio 190 30 

rain 191 i 

We'se, we shall or u>ill ... 77 6 

Westlin, ivestern 57 18 

Wha, who I 25 

Wha e'er, ivhoe7>er 174 20 

Whaiz'e, to wheeze 53 22 

Whalpit, whelped 111 

Wham, ivhom 246 8 

Whan, when . . 38 9 

Whang, a large slice '5 25 

to give the strappado .... 29 32 

Vlh^T, luhere 262 17 

Whare, where 2 21 

Wha's, whose 16 12 

Whase, 7uhose 23 8 

Vt'hM^ore ■not for ivhat reason not? 166 7 

Wh.m, did whet or cut .... 126 11 

Wh.uip, a curlew 169 6 

Whaur'll, lohere will .... i66 10 

W'hcc'p, Joying jtimbly .... 29 25 

'^\\\'\ik\i\, runtiitig as a hare . . 75 35 

Whigmeleeries, crochets ... 26 8 
Wliingin, crying, complaining, 

fretting 85 7 

Whim, furze bttshes 47 23 

Wliirlygigums, useless ornaments 25 47 
Whisht, peace. Held my whisht, 

kept silence 38 7 

Whiskit, whisked 53 32 

Whissle, ■whistle 10 26 

So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

to play a losing game . . 81 14 

Whistle, the throat 150 21 

Whitler, a hearty draught of liyuor 77 12 

W\n\\\-stane, 7uhinstone, granite . 18 22 

Whup, a ivhip 48 12 

Whyles, sometimes 2 3 

Wi'l with 118 

Wick, a term in curling, to strike 

a stone in an oblique direction 42 18 

Widdiefu, ill-tempered .... 18a 19 



GLOSSARY. 



627 



iir* J ji ^^9^ ^ine col. 

Widdle, a struggle or bustle . . 103 21 

Wiel, a small whirlpool ... 47 31 

Wifie, dim. of 7(i//"(> 62 6 

Wight, strong, powerful ... 104 9 

VfiV c:>l, the ivilii cat .... 127 7 

Willie-waught, a hearty draught. 227 3 
Willow wicker, Mf smaller species 

c/ivilloiu 121 J, 

'^\\\yAn,ivild, strange, timid . m 34 

'^\m\i\\\\, waving, 7ueandering . 44 n 

Wimpl't, wimpled 47 20 

Win', wind 236 27 

Winkiii, iui)iking 3° 13 

Winna, will twt 11 10 

Winnock - bunker, a seat in a 

window 93 25 

Winnocks, windows ..... 12 17 

Wins, 7uinds 4 2 

Win't, did wind 45 28 2 

Wintle, a staggering motion . . 47 22 

^i'mX.Xe.'i, struggles 170 8 

Winze, att oath 47 i6 

Wiss, wish 71 25 

Wilha', -Mithal 212 27 

Withoutten, without 42 30 

Wonncr, a wonder, a contemp- 
tuous appellation .... 2 29 

Wons, dwells 179 21 

Woo', wool 32 38 2 

Woodie, the gallows 5° 34 

a rope, more properly one vtade 

0/ withes or willo7us ... 83 18 
Wooer-babs, garters knotted be- 
low the knee in a couple 0/ 

ioops 44 52 

Wordie, dim. of worrf 128 17 

Wordy, worthy 72 5 

Worl', world 4 30 



,,. . /"aye line < 

Worset, worsted 46 8 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure 

or wonder 95 37 

Wraiig, wrong 36 25 

tnistaken n(y 5 

Wranged, wronged 71 35 

Wreeths, wreaths 55 9 

Wud, mad 8 14 

Wumble, a 7vimble 71 35 

Wyle, to beguile, to decoy ... 185 44 

Wyliecoat, (Ty?a««f/r<i>j^ ... 74 21 

Wyling, beguiling 188 20 

Wyte, to blame, to reproach . . 8 20 

\WSi, a garde7i 32 13 

Yaud, a worn-out horse . . . 272 36 
Yell, barren. As yell's the Bill, 
giving no more milk than the 

}"ll 31 24 

\erA,the churchyard .... 236 10 

y^rktl, jerked, lashed .... 34 21 

Yerl, an earl 272 24 

Ye.'sc, you shall or 7uill , . . . 104 21 

YeMreen, yesternight .... 21 35 

Yeas, gates 151 ii 

Yeiikin, //(r/z/«^ m 5 

Yeiiks, itches 121 9 

Yill, ale 18 30 

Yill-caup, ale-stoup 17 29 

Yird, earth 45 j 

Yirth, the earth 137 g 

YoV\n, yoking, a bout, a set to . 75 57 

Yont, beyond 31 33 

\o\.\r^e\, yourselves 19 5 

yourself 30 30 

Yowes, ewes 33 2 

Yowie, dim. o( yoTve 33 5 

Yule, Christmas igo 35 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Page 

Accept the gift a friend sincere .... 119 

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu! . . . 225 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace . . loi 

Adown winding Nith I did wander . . . 216 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl . . 170 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! . . . 214 

Again rejoicing nature sees 225 

Again the silent wheels of time .... 70 

A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie ! . 53 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be . . . . 274 
A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and 

soul . 281 

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight 135 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch . . . 163 

All hail! inexorable lord I 69 

Altho' my back be at the wa' 252 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir .... 240 
Altho' thou maun never be mine .... 196 
Amang the trees where humming bees . . 239 
Amang the heathy hills and ragged woods 103 
Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy De- 
cember! 206 

An honest man here lies at rest .... 121 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire . . . 227 

An' O! my Eppie 276 

A rose-bud by my early walk 199 

As cauld a wind as ever blew 156 

As down the burn they took their waj' . . 252 

As father Adam first was fool'd .... 167 

As 1 came in by our gate end 247 

As I stood by yon roofless tower .... 209 

As I was wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin' 252 

Ask why God made the gem so small . . 168 

A slave to love's unbounded sway . . . 247 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither ... 32 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith . . . 147 

As Tam the Chapman on a day .... 160 

A' the lads o' Thornie-bank 252 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good 

cheer 175 

Auld chuckle Reekie's sair distrest . . . 122 

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner . . 141 
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's 

alarms 195 

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink ... 71 

Bannocks o' bear meal 253 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay . . 97 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows . . 223 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive! . . . 207 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes . . . 173 

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness .... 172 



Page 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day . . . 176 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill 217 

Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing . . . 203 

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway .... 169 

But lately seen in gladsome green . . . 189 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth . . 156 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove . . . 184 

By Ochtertyre grows the aik 198 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day 236 

Can I cease to care 221 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west . 211 

Cauld is the e'enin' blast 253 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing . 172 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul 229 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er . . 253 

Come, let me take thee to my breast . . 217 

Coming through the rye, poor body . . 254 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair . 190 

Could aught of song declare my pains . . 242 
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in 

life 167 

Curse on ungrateful man that can be 

pleas'd 137 

Dear Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief . 

Dear , I'll give thee some advice 

Deluded swain, the pleasure .... 
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw . . 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? . 
Duncan Gray came here to woo . . . 
Dweller in yon dungeon dark .... 



34 
177 
186 

233 
231 
180 
83 



Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell ; . . 144 

Edina! Scotia's darling seat ! 75 

Expect na, Sir, in this narration .... 72 

Fair empress of the Poet's soul .... 134 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face .... 72 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint . . 176 

Fair the face of orient day 138 

False flatterer, Hope, away! 124 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame . . . . 250 
Farewell, dear Friend! may guid luck hit 

you 144 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains . . 144 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 

and ye skies 178 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 189 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong . 233 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped . . 239 

Fill me with the rosy wine 156 



630 



INDEX TO FIRST IINES. 



Page 

Fintray, my stay in worldly strife . . . 144 

First when Maggy was my care .... 232 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes 207 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn . . . 137 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near . . . 193 

Frae the friends and land I love .... 277 

Friday first's the day appointed .... 177 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal . . . 120 

From thee, Eliza, I must go 222 

From those drear solitudes and frowzy 

cells 142 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear . 197 

Fy, let us a' to Kircudbright 270 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night . . 201 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me 254 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 212 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may 

live 167 

Gudeen 'o you, Kimmer ....... 276 

Guid-mornin to your Majesty ! .... 36 

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johny . . 125 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore 
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte . . . 
Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd! . 
Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! . 
Hark! the mavis' evening sang . . . 
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Teil? . 
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie ! . 
Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots 
He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist . 
Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald . . 
He looked Just as your Sign-post lions do 
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad . 
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing 
Here awa, there awa, wandering VVillie 
Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct 

Here comes Burns 

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay . . 
Here is the glen, and here the bower . 
Here lie Willie Michie's banes . . . 
Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles 

were shamm'd 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose . . 
Here lies John Bushby, honest man! 
Here lies Johnny Pidgeon .... 
Here sowter Hood in Death does sleep 
Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd . 
Here where the Scottish Muse immortal 



Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 
Here's a health to them that's awa . 
Here's to thy health, my bonie lass . 
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and 

dead 

Hey. the dusty miller 

His face with smile eternal drest . . 
Honest Will to heaven is gane . . 
How can my poor heart be glad . . 
How cold is that bosom which folly once 

fired 

How cruel are the parents . . . 
How <\aur ye ca' me howlet-faced . 



185 

255 
114 
148 
187 
42 
74 
134 
95 
171 

255 
281 

255 
243 
183 
149 
175 
131 
187 
170 

175 
149 
174 
174 
173 
149 



234 
245 
256 

169 
256 
281 
177 
187 

117 
192 
176 



Page 
Kow lang and dreary is the night ... 188 
How pleasant the banks of the clear- 
winding Devon 215 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace . . 147 
How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and 

tjnite 1^7 

Husband, husband, cease your strife . . 186 

I am a keeper of the law 

I am my mammie's ae bairn 

" I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn 
I call no Goddess to inspire my strains 

1 coft a stane o' haslock woo' 

I do confess thou art sae fair 

I dreamed I lay where flowers were 

springing 

If thou should ask my love 

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap 

If you rattle along like your mistress's 

tongue 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen 

I gaed up to Dunse 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie . . . 

I had sax owsen in a pleugh 

I hae a wife o' my ain 

I hold it. Sir, my bounden duty .... 
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend . 
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near . . 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town 

I married with a scolding wife .... 

I met a lass, a bonie lass 

I mind it weel, in early date 

I murder hate by field or flood .... 
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor . 

In coming by the brig o' Dye 

Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art 
In Mauchline there dwells six proper 

young Belles 

In politics if thou wouldst mix .... 
In simmer when the hay was mawn . . 
Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a 

Toast 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime . 
In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper 

young men 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous 

sneer 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng . . 

I see a form, I see a face 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth 

Is there a whim-inspired fool 

Is there, for honest poverty 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard .... 

It is na, Jean, thy bonie face 

It was a' for our rlghtfu' King .... 
It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did 

me enthral 

It was the charming month of May . . . 
It was upon a Lammas night ..... 

Jenny M'Craw, she has ta'en to the 

heather 165 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss .... 210 

John Anderson my jo, John 201 



169 
246 
160 
121 
256 
213 

211 
258 
244 

163 
20I 
248 
78 

247 

180 
132 
70 
234 
234 
25D 
164 
125 
171 
103 

257 
96 

243 
170 
204 

168 
150 



159 
153 
193 
105 

173 



257 
257 

255 
219 
222 



Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 



171 



INDEX TO FIRST UNES. 



631 



Page 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? . . . 232 

Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw . . 29 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through . no 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame . . 173 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a' . . 174 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose ... 33 

Landlady, count the lawin 258 

Lass, when your mither is frae hame . . 104 
Last May a braw wooer cam down the 

lang glen 194 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg . 88 

Let not woman e'er complain 219 

Let other heroes boast their scars . . . 162 

Let other Poets raise a fracas .... 6 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize . . 109 

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast . . 160 

Like Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel . 150 
Lone on the bleaky hills the straying 

flocks 152 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours . 150 

Lord, to account who dares thee call . . 175 

Lord, we thank an' thee adore .... 165 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes 196 

Louis, what reck I by thee 20S 

Mark yonder pc.Tip of costly fashion . . 193 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave . . . 161 

Musing on the roaring ocean 197 

My blessings on ye, honest wife . . . 176 

My boltle is my holy pool i56 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves . 218 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang . . . loi 
My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick 

border O 238 

My Harry was a gallant gay 251 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie . . 201 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell .... 208 

My heart is wae, and unco wae .... 278 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 

not here 212 

My heart was ance as blythe and free . . 258 

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel . . . 121 

My lord a-hunting he is gane .... 246 

My Lord, I know your noble ear ... 98 
My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected 

' friend! 61 

My love she's but a lassie yet .... 258 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form . . 211 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair . . 210 

Nae heathen name shall I prefix .... 140 
No churchman am I for to rail and to 

write 224 

No more of your guests, be they titled or 

not 119 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no 

more! 118 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous 

lay 123 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city 109 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway .... 169 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green . 214 

Now health forsakes that angel face . . 161 
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature 

arrays 190 



Page 

Now Kennedy, if foot or horse .... 151 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea . . . i8g 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green . . 85 

Now Robin lies in his last lair .... 124 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers . . 228 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes . . 196 

Now spring has clad the groves in green . 228 

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns 223 

O a' ye pious godly flocks 126 

O bonie was yon rosy brier 193 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun . . . 230 

O can ye labour lea, young man . . . 164 

O, could I give thee India's wealth . . 153 

O Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life . 167 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! . 83 
O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone 

mountain straying 138 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw . . . 199 
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our 

peace 158 

O gie my love brose, brose 164 

OGoudie! terror o' the Whigs .... 1.11 

O, had the malt thy strength of mind . . 119 

Oh! had each Scot of ancient times . . 172 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie . . 260 

Oh, open the door, some pity to shew . . i8i 

O how can I be blithe and glad .... 214 

O how shall I, unskilfu', try 259 

O ken ye what JMeg o' the Mill has gotten 182 

O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie! . . . 259 

O, Lady Mary Ann 260 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet? . . . 191 

Old Winter with his frosty beard . . . 118 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles . . 242 

O leeze me on my spinnin wheel . . . 203 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide . . . 183 

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore . . . 175 
O luve will venture in, where it daur na 

weel be seen 205 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet . . . 261 

O Mary, at thy window be 237 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet . 208 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty . 202 

O merry hae I been teethin' a heckle . . 260 

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour . . . 181 

O, my hive's like a red, red rose . . . 209 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day . 240 

On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells . . . 234 
Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd 

dear 140 

One night as I did wander 242 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell . 167 

On peace and rest my mind was bent . . 247 

O, once I lov'd a bonie lass 232 

O Philly, happy be that day 219 

O poortith cauld, and restless love . . . 180 

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care 60 

O raging fortune's withering blast . . . 240 

O rattlin', roarin' Willie 261 

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine . . 81 

Orthodox, orthodox 153 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John 

Knox 99 

O sad and heavy should I part .... 262 

O saw ye bonie Lesley 239 



632 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



O saw ye my dear, my Phely? . . . 
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay 
O steer her up, and baud her gaun . 
O that I had ne'er been married 
O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above 
O Thou Great Being! what Thou art . 
O Thou, in whom we live and move . 
O thou pale Orb, that silent shines . . 
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend . 
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell 
O thou! whatever title suit thee . . 
O Thou, who kindly dost provide . . 
O thou whom Poetry abhors .... 
Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair . 
Out over the Forth I look to the North 
O, wat ye wha's in yon town .... 
O wat ye what my minnie did . . . 
O, were I on Parnassus' hill! . . . 
O were my love yon lilac fair ... 
O, wert thou in the cauld blast . . . 
O wha is she that lo'es me .... 
O wha my babie-clouts will buy? . . 
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal 

bannock? 

O whare live ye my bonie lass . . 

O wha will to St. Stephen's house 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 

O why the deuce should I repine 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut . . 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie 

Dunbar? 

C) ye wha are sae guid yoursel . . . 
O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare . 
Powers celestial, whose protection . . 



Page 
218 
276 

192 
262 
277 
67 
68 
165 
59 
68 
66 
130 
31 
123 
172 

253 
214 
209 
164 
200 
217 



41 
174 



155 
235 



Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy 

name 150 

Raving winds aroimd her blowing . . . 197 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart . . 115 

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true . 30 

Rusticity's ungainly form 175 

Sad thy talc, thou idle page 97 

Sae f,-.ir her hair, sae brent her brow . . 254 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets 188 

Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth . 156 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled . . . 227 

Searching auld wives' barrels . . . . 170 

Sensibility, how charming 239 

She is a winsome wee thing 180 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart 204 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot . . 226 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came ii5 

Sic a reptile was Wat 175 

Simmer's a pleasant time 263 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless 

bough 119 

Sir, as your mandate did request . . . 104 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card .... 133 
Sleep's! thou, or wak'st thou, fairest 

creature? 188 



Page 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires . 240 

So heavy, passive to the tempests' shocks 231 

Some books are lies frae end to end . . 19 

Some hae meat, and canna eat .... 155 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway . . 169 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? . 197 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour 111 

Strait is the spot and green the sod . . . 280 

Streams that glide in orient plains . . . 216 
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn- 

wood 251 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee . . 242 

.Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn . . . 191 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love . . 102 

Sweet naivete of feature 155 

Talk not to me of savages 156 

That there is falsehood in his looks . . 170 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout . . 249 

The black-headed eagle 163 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw . . 263 

The boniest lad that e'er I saw .... 264 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen . . 200 

The cats like kitchen 163 

The cooper o' Cuddie cam here awa . . 264 

The day returns, my bosom burns . . . 200 

The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town . . 216 
The Devil got notice that Grose was a- 

dying .._..._ 172 ' 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among . 123 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's . . . 24S 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 120 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast . . . 225 
The graybeard. Old Wisdom, may boast 

of his treasures 171 

The heather was blooming, the meadows 

were mawn 275 

Their groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign 

lands reckon 191 

The Ring's most humble servant I . . . 166 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith . . . 277 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare 138 

The last braw bridal that 1 was at . . . 165 
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 

hill 198 

The lovely lass o' Inverness 208 

The man, in life wherever plac'd ... 68 

The night was still, and o'er the hill . . 153 

The noble Maxwells, and their powers . 265 

The ploughman he's a bonie lad . . . 2f 8 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps 173 

There came a piper out o' Fife .... 165 

There liv'd a lass in yonder dale . . . 274 

There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes . 266 
There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen 179 

There's a youth in this city, it were a 

great pity 212 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes iSi 

There's death in the cup — sae beware! . 157 

There's naethin like the honest nappy ! . 161 

There's news, lasses, news 277 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han' . 223 
There was a bonie lass, and a bonie, bonie 

lass .... 250 

There was a lad was born in Kyle . . . 236 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



^11 



Page 

There was a lass, and she was fair . . . 184 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg . . 267 

There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen . . 277 
There was once a day, but old Time then 

was young 229 

There were five Carlins in the south . . 248 

There were three Kings into the east . . 220 
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic 

plough , . 24 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves 

returning 243 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing ■ . 208 

The Solemn League and Covenant . . . 155 

The sun had clos'd the winter day ... 38 
The Tailor fell thra the bed, thimbles 

an' a' 865 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea . . 203 

The tither morn 265 

The weary pund, the weary pund . . . 268 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills ... 89 
The winter it is past, and the simmer 

comes at last 243 

The wintry west extends his blast ... 61 

They snool me sair, and hand me down . 203 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling! . 197 

Thine am I, my faithful fair 186 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair . . . 118 

This Day Time winds th' exhausted chain 116 

This wot ye all whom it concerns . . . iii 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part . . . 211 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind . 156 

Though fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me . 159 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie .... 218 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray . 241 

Thou of an independent mind 117 

Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter fa' me 140 

Thou whom chance may hither lead . . 82 
Thou, who thy honour as thy God 

rever'st 90 

Tho' women's minds like winter winds . 241 

Throush and through the inspired leaves 157 
'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 

friend 114 

To Riddel, much-lamented man .... 157 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains . 247 

To you. Sir, this summons I've sent . . 280 
True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 

Yarrow 182 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza 204 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green . 178 

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle . . i 

'Twas in the seventeen hunder year . . 272 

'Twas na her bonle blue ee was my ruin . 192 
'Twas where the birch and sounding thong 

areply'd 135 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn .... 14 

Upon that night, when Fairies light. . . 44 

Up wi' the carles of Dysart 268 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee 275 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! . 158 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray 269 

We came na here to view your warks . . 168 

Wee, modest, crimson-tippfed flow'r . . 69 



Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie . . 54 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet . 257 

Wha is that at my bower door? .... 214 

Whan I sleep 1 dream 274 

Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? . . . 269 

What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch . . . 165 
What can a young lassie, what shall a 

young lassie 202 

What dost thou in that mansion fair? . . 169 
What needs this din about the town o' 

Lon'on J36 

What of earls with whom you have supt . 159 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die? . 1, . 269 

Wha will buy my troggin 271 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure . . 55 

When by a gfjierous public's kind acclaim 161 

When chapman billies leave the street . . 91 

When chill November's surly blast ... 65 

When death's dark stream 1 ferry o'er . . 123 

When , deceased, to the devil went 

down 176 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle . . . 239 

When first I saw fair Jeanie's face . . . 278 

When first my brave Johnnie lad . . . 209 

When Guilford good our Pilot stood . . 221 

When I think on the happy days . . . 274 

When Januar' wind was blawing cauld . 249 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird ... 48 
When Nature her great master-piece de- 

sign'd 86 

When o'er the hill the eastern star . . . 179 

When the drums do beat 259 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn . 237 
Where are the joys I have met in the 

morning 217 

Where, braving angry winter's storms . 198 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea . . . 227 

While at the stook the shearers cowr . . 128 
While briers an' woodbines budding 

green 75 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty 

things Ill 

While larks with little wing 184 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake . 77 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood . . 97 

While winds frae afli" Ben-Lomond blaw . • 57 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here . . . 168 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know . . . 173 

Whom will you send to London town! . . 269 

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow? . . 134 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? 67 

Why, why tell thy lover 229 

Why, ye tenants of the lake 132 

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride . . 157 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed .... 207 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary . . . 236 

Wilt thou be my dearie? i85 

With Pegasus upon a day 158 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! . 108 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 226 

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon . . . 206 

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon . . . 206 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right . . . an 

Ye hae lien a' wrang, lassie i6^ 



034 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires . 9 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give 

an ear 273 

Ye maggots feast on Nicol's brain . . . 165 
Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this 

sneering 171 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie 273 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song . 158 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine 215 

Yestreen I met you on the moor .... 199 
Yo true " Loyal Natives," attend to my 

song 158 



Page 

Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill . 246 
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and 

wide 213 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain . . . 275 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad . . . 233 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass . 235 

Your billet, sir, I grant receipt .... 176 
Your News, and Review, Sir, I've read 

through and throi-.gh, Sir 133 

Your welcome to Despots, Dumourier , . 242 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart .... 177 

Yours this moment I unseal 139 



INDEX TO THE LETTERS. 



To Miss Ellison Begbie, Nos. 1-4. 

William Burness, No. 5. 

Mr. John Murdoch, Nos. 6, 212. 

Commonplace Book, Nos. 7, 149. 

Mr. James Burness, Nos. 8-10, 173, 329. 

Miss , Nos. II, 294. 

Miss K , No. 12. 

Mr. John Richmond, Nos. 13, 16, 18, 57. 

Mr. Robert Muir, Nos. 14, 21, 29, 33, 59, 
129. 

Mr. David Brice, Nos. 15, 17. 

Mr. James Smith, Nos. 19, 53, 56, 140. 

Mr. John Kennedy, No. 20. 

Mr. Burnes, No. 22. 

Mr. Robert Aiken, No. 23. 

Mrs. Dunlop, Nos. 24, 38, 47, 48, 50, 94 
113, 130, 141, 143, 146, 147. 153-155. 158 
161, 164, 168, 174, 179, 189, 192, 197 
203, 209, 214, 219, 222, 229, 241, 246, 
249, 251, 252, 260, 261, 295, 315, 316 
319, 328. 

Mrs. Stewart, No. 25. 

Dr. Mackenzie, No. 26. 

Miss Alexander, No. 27. 

William Chalmers and John McAdam, 
No. 28. 

Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Nos. 30, 60, 72, 120. 

James Dalrymple, Esq., No. 31. 

John Ballantine, Esq., Nos. 32, 36, 37, 42. 

Mr. William Chalmers, No. 34. 

The Earl of Eglinton, No. 35. 

Dr. Moore, Nos. 39, 41, 49, 58, 169, 177, 

2TI, 224. 

The Rev. G. Lawrie, No. 40. 
The Earl of Glencairn, Nos. 43, 96, 269. 
The Earl of Buchan, Nos. 44, 233, 287. 
Mr. James Candlish, Nos. 45, 112. 

, Nos. 46, 125, 218, 230, 231. 

The Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair, No. 51. 
Mr. W. Nicol, Nos. 52, 54, 206, 244. 
Robert Ainslie, Esq., Nos. 55, 68, 124, 145, 

148, 150, 170, 186, 194, 236, 272. 
Mr. Walker, No. 6i. 
Mr. Gilbert Burns, Nos. 62, 201, 325. 
Miss Margaret Chalmers, Nos. 63, 64, 70, 

73. 78, 80,93, 116, 131, 139, 157. 
James Hoy, Esq., Nos. 65, 67. 
Rev. John Skinner, Nos. 66, 114. 
Miss Mabane, No. 69. 
Sir John Whitefoord, No. 71. 
Mrs. M'Lehose (Clarinda), Nfs. 74-77. 
Charles Hay, Esq., No. 79. 



To Clarinda, Nos. 81, 82, 84-92, 97-111, 118, 
119, 122, 126, 127, 132-13S, 176, 205, 

238-240, 263, 297. 
Mr. Richard Brown, Nos. 83, 115, 121, 128, 

136, 182, 195. 
Robert Graham, Esq., Nos. 95, 196, 

239. 
Mrs. Rose, No. 117. 
Mr. William Cruikshank, Nos. 123, 167. 
Mr. Robert Cleghorn, No. 137. 
Mr. William Dunbar, Nos. 138, 202. 
Professor Dugald Stewart, Nos. 142, 171. 
Mr. Samuel Brown, No. 144. 
Mr. Peter Hill, Nos. 151, 159, 178, 204, 

20B, 220, 243. 
Mr. George Lockhart, No. 152. 
Mr. Beugo, No. 156. 
The Editor of the " Star," No. «6o. 
Dr. Blacklock, No. 162. 
Mr. James Johnson, Nos. 163, 296, 323. 
Miss Davies, Nos. 165, 237. 
Mr. John Tennant, No. 166. 
Bishop Geddes, No. 172. 
The Rev. P. Carfrae, No. 175. 
Mrs. McMurdo, No. 180. 
Mr. Cunningham, Nos. 181, 207, 215, 225, 

232, 2\7, 264, 293, 324. 
Mr. James Hamilton, No. 183. 
William Creech, No. 184. 
Mr. McAuley, No. 185. 
Mr. [Peter Stuart], No. 187. 
Miss Williams, No. 188. 
Lady Glencairn, No. igo. 
Mr. John Logan, No. igi. 
Capt. Riddel. No. 193. 
Sir John Sinclair, No. 198. 
Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, No 

199. 
Charles Sharpe, Esq., No. 200. 
Collector Mitchell, No. 210. 
John McMurdo, Esq., Nos. 213, 285. 
Dr. Anderson, No. 216. 
Crauford Tait, Esq., No. 217. 
A. F. Tytler, Esq., No. 221. 
The Rev. Arch. Alison, No. 223. 
Mr. Alexander Dalzel, No. 226. 
Mrs. Graham, No. 227. 
The Rev. G. Baird, No. 228. 
Mr. Thomas Sloan, No. 234. 
Lady E. Cunningham, No. 235. 
Mr. William Smellie, No. 242. 
Francis Grose, Esq., No. 245. 



636 



INDEX TO THE LETTERS. 



To Mr. G. Thomson, Nos. 248, 250, 253, 254, 
258, 262, 267, 270, 271, 273-275, 277-284, 
298-306, 308, 309, 311-313, 321, 322, 326, 
330. 

Miss Fontenelle, No. 255. 

A Lady, No. 256. 

Mrs. RidJel, Nos. 257, 288, 290-292, 314, 
318, 320. 

Miss Benson, No. 265. 

Patrick Miller, Esq., No. 266. 

John Francis Erskine, Esq., No. 268. 

Miss Helen Craik, No. 276. 



To Captain f Roberston of Lude?], No. 2C6. 
Mr. Samuel Clarke, jun.. No. 289. 
Peter Miller, Jan., Esq., No. 307. 
Mr. Heron, No. 310. 
The Hon. the Provost, Bailies, and Town 

Council of Dumfries, No. 317. 
Mrs. Burns, No. 327. 
James Gracie, Esq., No. 331. 
Mr. James Armour, No. ^32. 

The Border Tour, p. 567. 

The Highland Tour, p. 574. 



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